The fibreglass chairs swing out on their arms, creak, squeak, and shatter to pieces on the concrete.
I am long out of mine heading for the door and I don't need to see that you are smiling. It's not at me. He saw, too, but tonight it's not my turn to take even one half of one for the team. He'll need some other human shield from you this night, or at least a costume.
Then I am chasing a skunk into the sodium light, chased myself by another who didn't see it personally enough. She never did, only smelled.
But that's all so long ago and far away it doesn't matter anymore, hej? We are new persons every ten, every five, every three years, eh? Only the scar tissue remains, ring upon ring. Saw me in two! You can't count that high.
No combinatorics in your program, oh no! Miss fancy pants Consultant.
Little brown mouse, you are beautiful and terrible in the wisdom you hide behind, and I was here years before, knowing, waiting for you, but knowing is not even one half of one bottle.
I swallowed that, years before, and I coughed up the bones, aye, little brown owl. I am a hatchling with no reason to fly.
Who are you smiling at now?
Who'd you think you'd impress when you threw it away?
Who will be your own shield, now nobo'y needs a shield from you now?
Who holds you, who by fire, who by wisdom, who by talon and silent wing in orange and black, sodium night?
Who are you in ten, three, five years, who?
Hans the Alchemist, hands on the stirring rod, stirring the poisonous first matter. Solve, solve et re-solve. Hans only dreams of coagulation.
Hands reaching out of the wall, out of the stillpots of the Great Work still covered in the red stone and the white, hands reaching down drainpipes, hands up, out of the privy; and a gold ring on every one.
Plain gold bands on hands. There are no stones in the settings. "But where," asks Hans, "are the stones of my father? The philosopher?"
It was hands again, hands dragging him back to where he'd just barely escaped the first time, the first time with his own hands he'd stirred the poison, poison hands with nails like fangs,
fingers like talons pulling the worlds back, turn half a world a world and a half back, halfback fullback quarterback, hands to put them all in their places. No defensive formation.
Hands tackling ankles from under the bed.
It was empty a moment ago, but the reporter said he had a bit more swagger in his step and we all know why, now don't we? Put a ring on that and write it down, if you like it.
Handwriting on the wall for the quarterback: "Te, te, te, tegami, te no kami, kami no te, tekel, øpharshin, your days are numbered.
Number nineteen, little brown man, it'll take more than a hash mark a hash tag to find you a hand to hold this time.
But you can ignore it again because they fixed that.
Now didn't they?
Dentist, noodle maker, kid with a ball and a dream bigger than his
Take down your pots, raise your broken bottles,
take him down bang, all down one two three,
pot bang pot jingle pot pot,
pot-bellied and three stroke!
Join the war, everybody's coming!
You have everything to lose except your fear, undouka!
When promises and daring to believe name the crime,
when shame names the game,
when we understand all consequences of what we write,
Bury honour and make a necessity of virtue. We won't be needing that anymore.