Orange Jubilee

by dschapman

The owner of the restaurant sat down. “The walls have ears,” he said, and then he quoted Plato and Nietzsche. “Do you know the most obscene word? The dirtiest word?” I could not think of a dirtiest word. “Billionaires,” he said. I should have liked to have been born a billionaire. Grease – fish heads – checkerboard – vanishing point – pewter – wax – garnished wages. I took my seat at the vision and relaxed my weary bones and muscles. “The pain I feel,” I wanted to say, “The pain I live with, you would never understand it, you can not understand.” But everyone is sympathetic enough. I have no right to speak about my own condition.

On a starship in the edge of space a crew of American heroes fly in the spirit of Gods, like Hephaestus they craft golden automatons of unprecedented power and send them patrolling the earth, sea, and heavens; the cowboys took flight, the frame of the picture thinned and turned black; “Move over,” he barked, and then hit me; so I confronted him. Disrespect – abomination. Then, in the pit, a laconic indifference. “How did it feel?” It felt fine. We feel fine.