Sharia Mars

 Sharia Mars

Aaron DeWeese

 

   It was a warm Martian summer's eve.  Young Master Abdul-Baari Glyphstickler was eleven years old.  Musin, his father—who was an auto car salesman—and Fadwa, his mother—a secretary for her cousin, a local shaikh—had both been summoned by the Caliph to deal with a case of a young mullah—which they were most relieved to find out was not their son, Abdul-Baari—who had allegedly stolen something from the main temple.  Musin and Fadwa both silently suspected within themselves that this was a false allegation arising from the mullah refusing to gain the favor, sexually speaking, of the older pigs. 

    The consequence of the mullah’s refusing the not-so-secret lusts of the older pigs would be carried out by the community that very night, within closed walls.  The consequence was punishment for a crime not committed. 

    Musin and Fadwa would place their votes to appease the consensus, and cast their river stones in turn, at the young mullah’s face and genitals, to then return to the guarded peace of their home.  Their sleep would be troubled and many prayers would be said for their young son, Abdul-Baari.  Their lives were lived in total submission to the laws of the land.  They awaited justice in the next life.

    Young Master Abdul-Baari Glyphstickler's parents feared for him while he was in attendance at the madrasa, knowing most intimately the aggressiveness of the sodomites, equally as lustful as their priest counterparts on Earth.

    On this warm evening, Abdul-Baari sat alone in his parent's home, blissfully lost in a virtual Thousand and One Nights.  He paused from his journeys in cyberspace to lift dehydrated eggplant to his mouth, which he followed with rose water. 

    Suddenly, Abdul-Baari became startled by a terrible noise rising from the highway below Summit Street, the high street on which his house stood.  The sound was of the screeching of tires. 

    In eleven years of life on Mars, he had witnessed the influx of more and more people from Earth.  Mars had built its first thriving industry - Jumaana, an automobile factory.  The import of petroleum products was quite inexpensive.  All Martian cars were very economical while severely lacking in ergonomics.  Long living diesel engines accelerated their speed of acceleration in the distance.  Mars’ car’s design were uniform and consistent in uniformity.  They were vehicles which resembled small silver spheres, with four small fifteen inch radials underneath.  Jumaanas, as they were called, were how the Martian now traveled.  Long gone were the wild days of Mu’min bikes and al-bukr.

    Abdul-Baari knew the sound of screeching tires on the highway very well.  Kashandenville Road was the southern most route which led directly into the hub of the city.  People didn’t seem to slow down as they approached the city.

     He cringed and waited for the sound of impact to inevitably follow the screeching.  There it was, finally, but it didn't sound right to him.  It sounded...wrong.  He ran outside into the back yard.

    Summit Street looked down upon Kashandenville Road.  A few hundred yards down, the road narrowed and ran directly through the middle of Iltmo Village.  Abdul-Baari could see customers running out of the Texaco gas station.  He couldn’t see the scene of the accident for some trees, but it had taken place directly in front of the station.  Abdul-Baari briskly walked a short ways down Summit Street, so that he might see better.  His neighbor, Mr. Bishr had come out of his house and was standing with a grimace on his face as he gazed at the accident below.  Somehow Mr. Bishr managed to stay on top of all happenings in the neighborhood.  He seemed a living repository of public information which would rather itself remain private in most cases.  It would not long remain private once it came to Mr. Bishr.  Abdul-Baari approached Mr. Bishr slowly.

    “It’s pretty bad,” he said flatly.

    “What is it,” Abdul-Baari asked as he came to stand beside his neighbor.

    He saw for himself.  A single Jumaana was stopped in the middle of the highway, it’s front end mangled and bloody.  Black tire marks trailed quite a ways behind it.  Something big was laying a ways down the road, in front of it.  It’s what made the sickening sound of the impact.  It was a grotesquely obese man.

    “I’m sure that fella just got killed,” Mr. Bishr said.

    Abdul-Baari jumped the guard rail and bounded down the hill behind the Texaco station.  In a few moments he was standing at the side of Kashandenville Road, in front of the gas pumps, with a small group of people who stood gawking.  A woman was crying hysterically.  Abdul-Baari looked at the fat man in the road.  He was white.  He wasn’t moving.  Several streams of blood were making their way down the road.  They were incredibly long, seeming as red rivers.  He didn’t doubt the blood would reach into Iltmo Village before long.  He heard the wailing of a siren in the distance.  The EMT would wash the blood away.

    The men got out of the ambulance and covered the fat man.  They ask some questions of the bystanders, and then took him away.  The crowd slowly dispersed, chattering excitedly amongst themselves.   The next morning Abdul-Baari would find himself seated within a small wooden desk at the madrasa.  A small seed of righteous hate blossomed in his heart. 

Bicycle Dreams in the Appalachians

Secret Travelers

Aaron DeWeese

Labor to reach home.

Cycling down mountain interstate, perhaps long ago I traveled before.

Stunted by blue mountain peaks, I precariously pick up speed down the enormous and divided decline.

Now and then a car passes by, fellow mountain travelers, between communities.

There is interstate and mountain.

It is late afternoon.

I am cycling down the mountain.

Tale of the Toilets or Bidet Bottom Washer

Weathered

Aaron DeWeese

I urinate and catch a reflection


A tropical blue strikes with nostalgia


Upon the yellowed waters of the past




Summers of rot become clouded through the glass


My left eye roams, struck with dementia


A book of strange words brings us to erection




Spores and a dankness carried forth by West


A familiar black dog brings news of sadness


The Patriarch spends his time inbreeding

The Fool laughs, dances without understanding


Shiny green scales, the leotard for dress


Walk away on red carpet, shunning the rest

My right eye focuses on the Island


Here there are no winds, only currents of time


They flow forth from a pool of paradox




I drink from a spring in the high above rock


Glimmering reveals a Mercury dime




What gentle message hath Providence planned.

Earthen

Earthen

Aaron DeWeese

At the back wall of the grocery,

Where the deli is situated,

Behind the counter,

A back-lit picture hangs,

Ice Cold.


It is of a red paper Coke cup,

Filled two thirds with nugget ice,

One third with Coca-Cola.


The drink sits upon a mossy stone,

Which lies on the dark fertile ground of a forest.


I can smell the rich soil,

Its essence strong;

More so than the baked and fried deli items,

Which are displayed and kept heated on the counter.


I know that underneath the rotting foundation of the grocery,

And that underneath the foundation of the Sphinx,

There is this same rich black and odorous soil.


I look to the left of the back-lit Coke sign,

Which itself seems to draw condensation,

And I order...


The potato wedges.

Cloud Reading, Sky Fishing, House Atreus

Orestes of House Atreus

As Far As Lapland or The Queen In Space

Some days you wish that you had made choices that would have led you to what hopefully would have been a different place.  One must have faith that it would have been a different place.

I would imagine that should the Geometry of myself become representational and manifested, I should appear as a misshapen box tied with a red bow; incapable of storing; incapable of giving forth.

As it would happen, on this particular day, I was silently in praise of the fact that the unattainable algorithm that had come to the product of the present, continued to go forth unto the Grid, exponentially; and I mean not the begats of flesh.

Kalitsia's incessant humming brought me up, or down, were it, into myself from wherever I was.  Her happy and inconscient inconsistent tune angered me.  I then became conscious again of the effect our cargo was having on us—the effect of 300 milliscobles of Elusian spores.

Kalitsia and her kind use them in a kind of communal communion, in which breath itself becomes the Eucharist.  I realized then that the word Eucharist had just served as the catalyst for terrible panic within myself.

Drifting through space, a ship; drifting through ship's lung, spores—being sucked through my nasal passages like a superbly fine snuff.  She had purposefully broken the seals after the violent episode we had on Thaumis IX.

I have nothing to do.  I must do something.  To simply exist here was...embroidered salt, I thought.   Salt is bad.  Strokes, Lot's wife, high blood pressure.  My head felt funny.  She was saying something.  Damn her.  What is she saying?  She's giving a discourse on the history of the Caith sid.  To me?

The evidence was always there, sometimes so plain anyone looking could gain the wisdom.  A perfect example of the old wisdom appears.  These were my thoughts as her words became discernible to my ears once again.

She stood in her chair, looked to a point near the top of the ship and began to speak in a highly thespianic voice.

"And the men were thrown into a sledge drawn by a discoloured cat; and the cat in its rapid course bore them off to the extreme limits of Pohjola, as far as the vast deserts of Lapland, where the horse's footsteps no longer resounds, and the mare's foal finds no pasture.  Thus Lemminkainen mocked at young men, old men, and men in the prime of life, by means of his incantations."

"Now listen here!  Listen, I say!  I don't feel too good in my head.  Stop all this, for God's sake!," I pleaded with her.

"This," she resumed in her natural voice, "is a starting point for the historical research into the great witch craze of 1100-1700 AD.  And please, spells are what started this whole mess, so do not, I repeat do not, let me go get my wand later.  Your wrist watch is sufficient to replace us."

Of course this was her brand of humor.  In the midst of absolute terror and mind-bleeding horrors, she jokes.  Since her resurgence into power the Caith sid had become her constant mad muses.  I wondered what would be made of our landing, were we to manage to land.  I couldn't handle the cameras.  And then to see the image of myself played over and over on the news feeds!  Maybe we should not land.

Sensistit, our navigator, looked back over his shoulder, his forehead glistening with his ever-present perspiration.  He took some cratin leaf out of his pocket and bit a chunk off, his eyes wide as saucers.  Chew, chew, chew, sweat, sweat, sweat.  Sensistit was never one to waste words.  I could tell by his expression that he was just as alarmed as I, if not more so.  I wouldn't tell him that cratin leaf would probably serve to intensify the effects of the spores.  This brought a malevolent grin to my face.

"Not to offend you Kalitsia, but I was under the impression that the Caith sid bring bad experiences to those they visit.  Back in the Gemir Age, underneath Sedona, 12 engineers on the Grid Field Generation project..."

Kalitsia interrupted with hysterical laughter.

"I was captured by a reclusive one of no known rank or race.  It spooked my intestine and I knew it to be.  It appeared as a dark She-Wolf.  She spoke in my mother's voice, telling me that she had traveled far to meet me, her adherent.  At this I became quite pale and turned...tale.  I awoke in a small underground room with tree roots coming through the dirt ceiling.  There were bottles of wine or blood stored on shelves in the corner.  I hovered over my own body, which was lying face-up before a balance.  In the left bowl of the balance was tangril weed and in the right bowl of the balance was Elusian spore." 

"I floated there above myself, looking myself in the face, unable to move either of myself, but able to see, to hear, to think.  An old crone appeared, covered with dirty rags.  She whispered to me that she was a woman who had been burned in life unto death some 8000 spirals ago.  I laid before her for three nights and no days, dreaming strange dreams, listening to vague whispers, seeing the glint of her green and vivaciously hungry eyes.  My intestines ruptured and I knew.  I now know that I had been trapped under the Earth in a Piscean spiral where tangril weed and Elusian spore nourished me.  In this way did the Caith sid come to give wisdom.  I came to myself, nude, alone, nestled deep in Dudley forest.  Twas the northwestern corner of Connecticut, not far from Cornwall, in the shadow of three mountains, where only the blackest of hearts tread.  Mysterious deaths of the residents there in the Eighteenth Century, unexplained madness and violence in the following centuries.  It continues there to this day.  In that ancient place I stood, as bare as the day I was born.  Strange cyclopean noises I heard coming forth from the sky and the ground.  A black cat emerged and then dissipated, leaving only a pair of green eyes in the darkness of the deep wood."

With that, I wiped my dripping forehead with my sleeve and turned to face the grid layout.  Sensistit stood and began to take his clothes off.

Point zero zero zero.  Two alspris before we reach the Earth quadrant.

Since I laid visuals on Kalitsia, I felt that there was an ever-so-soft pulling at the red silken bow.  I began to profusely sweat.  My face was burning.  And then the word popped into my mind again.

Eucharist.

Grave Dowsing or Go Ahead, Pull My Forehead

 I

I kept thinking to myself, I know what to do here.  Oh yeah, now I remember.  Son of God.  Remember the teachings.  Not my will.  

In my mind's eye I saw a golden chalice brimming over with cool refreshing water.  I acquired the warm overwhelming sensation of Peace of mind and body.

I only connect from safe points of reality now.  Fleeting orbs of darkness are a constant in my peripheral vision.  I must be careful what I say, do, think.  How bright a Light in the Darkness.  What is grey?  Red, orange, and yellow create the grey of warmth.  Violet, blue, and green create the grey of annual equinoxes, of wintertide.  Achromatic grey is but light reflected from a grandeur density.  Dyspraxia, ironically is the modern ethos.   As the paradoxologist Chesterton pointed out: 


Sherlock Holmes is not really a real logician.  He is an ideal logician imagined by an illogical person.  But Sherlock Holmes is an ideal figure, and in an imaginative sense a very effective one.  He does embody the notion which unreasonable people entertain of what pure reason would be like.

*    *    *

The tower of the King's dreams has formed, and its beauty is horrible.  Only the people remain.  Their historicity has been disestablished.  Life is community, community is natural, nature is cruel.


Anna, the child of Venus comes forth to fulfill her role in Capricorn.  She pauses momentarily at my side.

"Do you want to come to the Zelandia Pentantric with me tonite?," her eyes ask, full of laughing scorn.  "Midocin is going to bring his harvest of Amanitas."

"Mmmm," I reply decidedly while shrugging my shoulders and drawing my head to the side.
 
Community leaders are the Earthly representatives of the Heavens.  Every heavenly host is represented.  Anna's red hair pours over her pert youthful breasts.  The crone is within.  Her green eyes, illuminated with the knowledge of all things hidden, follow the gaze of my eyes.  She is the temple of seductiveness.  Of course I was going, though my reasons for doing so were far different from the others.

"Do you suppose it will be Din's troupe?," she attempts and fails to ask in a careless way.

"I would think that you would hope that it would not be him nor his troupe, but women are arranged strangely, are they not?"  This time it was me who laughed with my eyes.

II

We have learned more of the 11 fold theory.  Our forefathers would consider us heretical; and yet we must go where truth leads us.  We can now find and access the preferred lines consistently.  Harmonic portals can usually be oxygenated by an assembly of five females, three males, and four participant witnesses of the same calling name.  Every ritual is accompanied by a musical theme.

The House Nourisher, Avocado Wolf, now of 36 Cycles, has a slight fixation on raw cuisine and necrology.  He is quite rustic, with a long 5-MeO-DMT drawn face, unusual slimness, and a crouching stature.  His shoulder-length auburn hair is oft permeated with the fat of his meals.  He smells of venison.  Much of the vegetarian community reels at sudden appearances of his countenance.  He, is charged this nite with melody.

Earlier in the day, whilst in the latrine powerfully defecating, I became cornered by him.  He took the time to confide in me that he had based his musicale for tonight's Pentantric on the legend of Zelandia.  His chosen instrument was to be the Tesla coils.  Zelandia is a local site upon Beaucatcher Mountain.  The legend says that a woman, Helen, had hung herself from the stone bridge there after her daughter had burned to death in the old Zelandia manse.  In the midst of necrological studies, Avocado had become convinced that Helen held a gift for Elsbith, pubescent daughter of Sol, community couturier. 

Once summoned, Avocado would inquire of Helen not as to the truth of the thing that had happened to her, nor of what lies beyond life, nor of even what gift she had for Elsbith.  He would beg of her some covetous thing; which is I believe to be the enlistment of her as a helper.  Avocado told me upon the smoking of his powder, and after his own tumultuous and quite liquid defecation, that since childhood he has been most experienced in the post cognitive arts as well as culinary arts.

"My talent with the knife, the hooks; it all comes down from my great grandfather Binnie Wolf.  He told me, when you open the flesh, you let something in."

Germs, I thought, that's what comes in to your open flesh, germs.

Avocado stated this with enthusiasm whilst pulling a 10 gauge hook slowly through the skin of his forehead.  He became ecstatic at the tearing flesh, the shredded exit hole, the ejaculation of what he called love.  I thought, you idiot, you've just let a stream of fecal inhabiting germs, bacterias, and viruses into your stupid holed head—Campylobacter, E. Coli O157, Enterovirus, Giardia, Hand-Foot-Mouth Disease, Hepatitis A, Infectious Diarrhea, Pinworms, Polio, Salmonella, Shigella...

Avocado continued as he bled from the head, "I am the image of my grandfather as well.  I am convinced of DNA destiny."

Avocado's great grandfather was said to have been the water witch who was responsible for the finding of the communities water source—an immense well situated in the middle of a heptagram in the middle of the market.

"He was a dowser by trade, damned good one.  His goodwill hobby was to refurbish diminished grave sites that had become no longer visible to this world.  He not only divined the layout of sites which were so old that no markers were to be found, but also divined the names, birth and death dates, and causes of death of the forgotten.  Indeed, remains were below where he pointed from above.  The dead need houses, was his explanation.  The Forest Sanctuary was his own work, said it was the oldest site known to him." 

Undoubtedly, the massive necropolis in the forest was Avocado's great grandfather's greatest accomplishment.  His methods for the movement and placement of huge granite slabs is still unknown.

I slipped out of the latrine as Avocado set fire to more of his powder.

The Impotence of Virility or How I Met Our Death

Those who intimately knew me are no longer of this world. I have not been of this world for quite some time.

Sed fugit interea fugit irreparabile tempus.

I am not saddened by loneliness. I thrive in solitude. I take what might be mistaken for joy in the recesses of deep melancholy. Blind blissfulness is not only unattainable for myself, but a blasphemous thing. Nostalgia is erotic and is ideality. The future is my apathetic bride-to-be. I shall attempt to undo her chastity belt so that I may deny her justly of my seed which would fall upon barren worlds.

The memories of past lives fill me and I am satiated. The realization of the futility of their now corrupted flesh passing from juvenescence to maturescence to decrepit obsolescence eases my mind and relinquishes me to my own spiraling journey. Their bones are my resonating guides, reverberating with melodies in minors which speak to pain, loss, rejection, disillusionment, and the rare sad exposed joy.

I am repulsed by children and babies, therefore I have chosen to have none. Many people are repulsed by children. Few let this stop them from dropping them like great steaming bastardized turds.

The purpose of the seed is to give meaning to an otherwise meaningless life and world. The hollow beget the hollow. The extinct were always the most interesting.

My life has been spent staving off others. I must not coalesce with community, as I would be destroyed, irreparably transformed into something of commonality. Should I entertain your company, I would not only be forced to empathize with you, I must become you and you me. It would not be an equal exchange, no matter of your class or distinction. The result would be the degeneration of ourselves—the transmogrifying of ourselves into what can only be called, something else.

Would I have wanted to know Einstein? No. I have his body of work to study. The man would have disappointed and disinterested me. Print is the purified essence.

My flesh is imprisoned in the present. In youth my mind lived in the future. I am now predominantly living in the horror of perspicacity of the past, as it lives in the selectivity of the memory. I am that I was that I will not be. A minor (Am) echoes down through the valleys of the Blue Ridge Mountains, pausing momentarily in a field where a deer lies dying, a Capricorn.

And Lucifer also appeared as the Morning Star.

 

And these things were said to tempt:

I could comment in an intellectual manner on all of the interesting content here...

And yet, I see the pretty women and I am transported to sunbathed Egypt by Jack Parson rocket which very soon afterwords explodes into a glorious light of beauty and creation. 

As with Crowley, any ambition has been dashed to pieces on the shore of fickleness of federating. Sex magick, indeed.

Undoubtedly, any woman would beat any man in a game of chess, should she use the power I have endowed her with.

The natural weapon of a woman is the negation of ratiocination. This power, in the hands of beautiful and logical women? There is no hope for man. Bite the fruit, suckle the teat. As Kirk knows, you must throw up your hands and postpone exploration of the Universe!

And yet again, with the power invested in me, I rebuked the serpent...

I closed my eyes, opened them, and looked upon these women.

Is this beauty or a cheap illusion conjured to conceal the fact that other than their natural weapons, there is little dwelling within to delay my ascension? Are not their legs haired?

Projected fallacy! Thou fetor and decrepitate!

To the books! Belay that! There is a lit cigar near to rocket fuel! A vision! An aged and drunken Bill Clinton seeking validation of apperception! Behold! Snickering! Blasphemy! Let me gaze again upon you.

In the name of Jesus, you must flee!