I could not tell you where or when or how the hell what I have been bound
to by contract was created. When you live a life of despair and self-hatred,
it isn't uncommon to miss the details. The process of assembling this
edifice of self flagellation is shrouded in a rich patina of mystery, but I have
my
own speculations on its origins. The ship was forged under the direction of
unholy passions and dark spirits. It is not obvious, this feeling, this
preternatural knowledge. Not like the visible change of men's personalities
when
they arrive here. That is one of the hints. The other hints come one by one.
They must be carefully lured, like the squirrels old men feed in the park. No
one knows why, but the truth and men distrust one another -- probably because
they are so unfamiliar. To find the hints, one must be alone. Truly alone
and beyond the strict influence of others. One must be in a dim place. That
is not hard, there are many dim places around this ship. The sailing roster is
full of dim places. When you find the location and the right time, it comes.
It drips up from the cold, gritty deck plates, ropy sticky wisps of putrid
incense. It is the souls of a thousand men they have senselessly sacrificed on
this vessel. Sacrificed simply because a higher position allowed it.
Because they could. Not even the dignity to name a god for whom the sacrifice
took
place. If you patiently wait in your time of understanding, those thousand
men will whisper the name. It starts slow and deliberate, like a sleeping
lover's breath. In the background, behind the action, you can hear the ship's
heart beat. Fans and pumps, whirring and turning, like an atheist's prayer
wheel.
Moving and going no where. Electric symbols of Hell. Of life. In time, if
you can withstand the agony and empathy you endure in your heart, the men's
voices will swirl into the Monsoon, into the Sierra, into the Nor'easter, into
the wind-walking demon, Ithiqua itself. The name of this god comes from their
mouths, an invader riding proudly, his horse over the corpses. "Career,"
they howl. It haunts you in your private apocalypse. As you bond to the cold
metal framing, abhorred and transfixed, revelations occur. The reactor is fuels
by souls. This is not fantasy or speculation. This is fact. A "pipeline"
has been established to ensure the reactor is always provided with fresh souls.
When the new ones come you can physically differentiate the unbalance
between those who come, and those who are here. The unblemished have too much
soul.
They don't know it, but their soul panics as if a bird in a cat stalked
cage. Light and feathered, it beats about the bars on the inside until it is
dead
or featherless. On the outside, the prey vainly attempts to motivate others
around himself. The words pour like piss on a flat rock, with just as much
meaning. Soon, with dark eyes and knotted hair, this parasitic host makes his
duly appointed rounds mumbling, "I don't give a fuck." When men get
on the
outside, out of the reactor's sphere of influence, they come back to life. They
live. The bird, beaten and featherless, grows back its plumage and starts to
sing. That is how you know it is a fact. You can know it to be true by this:
When a hatch it open, and a spear of sunlight stabs the engineroom in the
heart, dusty oil suspended in air drips off the shaft of light. The men stir
with slavering animal hunger for the outside. For the air. For the light. A
vain attempt to temporarily regain their feathers. What those above you tell
you and what the heart perceives are very different. I have been told that the
reactor is filled with uranium. Do you know what uranium is? It is a word
for the culmination of all the old gods. Of Loki and Quetzacoatl. Of Satan and
Santa Claus. Of Zeus, Hera and Cookie Monster. All trapped inside, feeding
on your soul. Uranium. A nether-place. Ubiquitous and unmentionable. The
spiritual blackmail and ritual that must have gone on, to get them in there.
Packed tight, like genie slum-housing. Hyman G. Rickover: Slumlord. An
overtone from Uranium that comes out in the way berthing is designed, the way
we
live. So much influence in that lead shrouded sarcophagus. Uranium: The place
where old gods go. In their image, we were created. Sacrifice. Contrition.
Penance. Base genuflection. Prostration. All feeble attempts at
immortality. At pleasing the irrational. Some queer bent, creating hope beyond
reason.
That is all I know about the turning gear casualty.
- Jacoby Tarbox
back to poets page
DIGIT MAN
I love the Navy!
Every meal's a banquet
Every paycheck a fortune
Every day's a Holiday
God bless the CNO!
As he raised the gun to his head
he paused for a moment with hesitation.
Then with firm resolve anew
he squeezed the trigger tightly.
The bullet splashed through liquid skin
and set his mind free
at last.
Where did you go Mike Borda?
Or you, COB of the Phoenix?
Wasn't this your family
your career
your life?
Was it so bad after all?
Was the pain so inescapable
that only death's sweet oblivion
could offer peace in the end?
I wonder
What could drive a man to the brink of desperation
Where no other option seems valid
Where all roads lead to one straight and narrow path
of no return.
I'll tell you.
The Navy