"Because you are a radical." She pursed her lips.

  "How do you figure that?!?" 

  "STAND OVER THERE." 

  "To the corner?" 

  The corner was filling up.  Someone put a thesis in front of his face and yelled out, "Is this not a University?" 

  Others wandering around in the hallways ducked into the classroom.  The tall woman and some other people murmured about each one before declaring things like (i)liberal(i), (i)standard Republican(i), (i)religious(i), (i)Academic(i).  The thesis asked, "Are we not all Academic?" 

  A low moaned (i)noooooo(i) had some gasp and the corner suddenly seemed more like a stall of nervous horses.  "This campus has been invaded," said a slightly taller moaner.  "By who? The Beatles?" A man with thick yellow glasses asked.  "Are the Red Coats coming?" Someone else asked.  Some of the moaners (i)tsk'd(i) and some said (i)sho nuff, sho nuff(i).  Someone looking female but with a very deep voice remarked, (i)Sho nuff, my sources saw peoples with GUNS(i).  A medium-sized woman dressed in a smart suit shoo'd that one all the way to a desk.  "Trying to make me the sitting duck I see." 

  "Your parfoom stink." 

  "What are we going to do in the dark?" 

  "We are definitely going to turn the lights on." 

  "Yes, you blind people need to see the light." 

  "Ow!  She just poked me with a pen!" 

  "That book you cited in your 

  "I didn't give a lecture 

  "(i)talk, is not in the canon." 

  "That makes me radical?" 

  "To some." 

  "What (i)is(i) in the cannon?" 

  A SECURITY-vested man craned his neck as he stealthed past the door, then reappeared with a handgun aimed at the floor. 

  "That doesn't make me anymore comfortable about those things," someone said.

"God bless you as alloo achtbar; got it." The

man made the notation in a thickening binder on cross-cultural studies.  Dozens of young men and women had que'd themselves to report symbols and meanings.  Children in various states of dressed for the day weren't (i)playing(i). 

  "Looks like we're not going to Trick or Treating," sad kids slumped into the chairs around the dining table. 

  "Big surprise," said an oldest girl rolling her eyes. 

  It wasn't long watching raindrops on the window before the garage door could be heard. 

  "Oh! You guys are home already," said a mom with a Snickers in her mouth.  Other moms mumbled at the sudden halt in the doorway, stifling cuss words at bags of candy dropped. 

  "A little more diplomacy boys."  The man fell back into a wall.  A woman went to wipe the blood dripping from a split lip and the man wearily snatched the towel.  Another man grabbed a bottle of aspirin and a glass of water from a silver serving tray held stiffly by a butler. 

  Almost in slow motion the cultural variety of young men and women fought.  The losers were dragged off the mock tarmac.  Thrown in a pile as recorders fell behind on writing details and photographers numbered numbers.  "It'll all be archived," said a man chomping on half a cigar.  He waved a (i)sigh-yo-nara suckers(i) to the newly minted in a golf cart jitney headed for "a real meal". 

  "Missing teeth." 

  "Probably drop kicked.  Go ask that one." 

  A scrappy young person leaned against a tree by one foot propping him or her alert looking.  Rubbed bruised knuckles while a tiny young woman dug through a tool box.  "Looking for?" Tall boots beside her expecting an answer made her shake harder than a tremble.  She closed the lid and slunk backward. 

  "Ten more to go!" Someone hollered near a whitewashed school bus. 

  "Why are the beatings so bad?" 

  A punk-haired manboy sighed and made a sarcastic girly dimple gesture on his own face.  "Because I'm stupid." 

  An Officer stepped forward.  "If (i)they(i) hadn'tah (i)infiltrated(i) our barracks, none of this wouldah happened." 

"Voodoo shmoodoo is what

  the wasp man said," told a kid who'd been to all the groups drinking church soda.  "Either way Father, we'd like you to come Bless our home."  The priest nodded absently even as he observed the bucket of ground up seashells and baubly beads.  "Of course," he said. 

 

"HE'S MESSYOHGINNY!"

  Startled.  "HE IS NOT!" 

  Silenced.  "And he's headed back into the war." 

  A moaning cry. 

  "And stop sneaking around spying on us or I'll..." 

  "You what?" 

  "I'll think of something." 

  "LADIES.  TITS UP, CHINS OUT." The hot yoga instructor who'd been hanging with some military moms stood in front of the nature walkers and ordered.  Some of the older women giggled.  One commented, "I haven't thought about either of those and me in the same sentence (i)in years(i).  I like her!" 

  "GO HOME YOU little," the man's lips scrunched and gnarled "(i)communist(i)."  Somebody gasped.  Somebody else started quietly humming, (i)getting to know you, getting to know all about you(i).  "Shouldah kept my wanker in my pants," the man mumbled.  Then called out to the woman slowly walking away, "Wait.  I need those," he pointed at her chest.  His hand motioned (i)give them to me(i).  "Those?" The woman looked at the binoculars on a strap around her neck.  "Yes.  (i)MINE(i)." 

  Even the woman found a place to lay quiet in the Forest.  A vehicle pulling two logs on a trailer nearing covered the minute sounds of rousing.  Another woman reported what seen in the field glasses.  "He is (i)all(i) man.  When I look at him I can see him at every age all rolled into this perfect present man." 

  "Give me those!  What is he (i)doing(i)?" 

  Another man peeked.  "Taking a pileak." 

(i)These colors don't run(i) vied with

  the word (i)LOVE(i) on a tie-dye tee-shirt.  Person gone.  Groups of people frozen in place as Crime Scene Investigation factually recorded every square inch of a large grid. 

  "What's the competing sound?" Asked a world famous Audiologist. 

  "That's (i)drama(i) to us," said an English-speaking scientist.  Fingers ran through lists and lists of words in many languages and in characters.  Somehow "sound" and drama matched up in a popular-speak legacy.

  "Competing sound is a golf game crowd spontaneously saying, (i)eeeeeww(i)." 

  "Why?" 

  "A brother and sister living together, not anything weird." 

  A Detective slammed an open palm on a sawhorse.  "I'M THE ONE ASKING THE QUESTIONS HERE!" 

  "Yes m'am." Someone managed. 

  Back Overseas there was progress (i)towards(i) peace.  But "agreements" had to be reached; political parties had to be political and not one with "militia" which is in many places different than National military; and some baseline on war/crimes had to be stormed towards in (i)legal processes(i).  

  Some countries staged photo ops of citizens making a difference by voting.  Crowds were powerless as cameras were ordered (i)off(i) and peoples' fingers were cut off.  People were dragged around by head hair.  People were denied medical aid.  People were slammed and piled into institutional places. 

  "I can't testify." Someone relayed what was said since everyone was in a contraption of "I'll shoot." Loved ones were snatched as soft targets.  People drank themselves to numb just to calm the shakes. 

  "When you say (i)global(i), what do you mean exactly?" Minds ticked off mental lists of what could be said and what couldn't to save some of humanity. 

Puttings things back into Pandora's box

  As we'd done on Broadway in a maelstrom of popular meets Academic, the civilian journalists slipped network jackets and helped create buffer zones.  In New York it had been a literal red velvet rope.  And the crushes could overwhelm.  Around the world in a 24/7 news cycle anyone, anywhere might be caught off guard. 

  "Blushing" would not be the word for the colors people turned in confrontations and interventions so wiley not even a PR bandaid could keep the White House from reacting. 

  "You ACCUSED ME OF SELLING STATE SECRETS!!!!!" To a (i)just want to know why(i) someone got bowled over in a crowd.  "Have your lawyer call ours," a man or woman could be heard saying nine times out of ten.

Somewhere around mile 317 of 728 we

  took to madlibbing each others' sentences.  "There's real 

  "Stylish." 

  "And you're not it." 

  Moods and personalities centering on the seesaw of real life.  Song charts dissected with a carpenter pencil and the lines of analysis.  Questions shredding song writing as if songs were potatos.  "Let's turn this into Latkah and call it a day," the third person influenced the dynamic. 

  "Do you guys ever have fun?" A tall guy in a crusher hat asked outside a restaurant as the sunset turned objects into silouhettes of themselves.  Nobody answered. 

  "You have the beer.  I'll drive next." 

  "It's just so mechanical." 

  "The actual score?" 

  "Everything really." 

  "Some people are going Indie." 

  "What's that?" 

  "Evolving, emerging, liminal, hard to pin down genre-wise." 

  "Broker than broke?" 

  "Probably." 

  Snoring.  "Honey you haven't touched your food." 

  "Is that person fucked up?" 

  "Asleep." 

  "Can't sleep here.  See the sign." 

  "Okay.  Can we have a To Go box please." 

"It's the scene in (i)The Last Knight(i) where

  "In which" 

  "Where the men and people are bereft of their kingdom, but

  "Look we have to reorganize this based on 

  "BUT (i)they don't give up(i)." 

  Palms flat out wanting correct pens, phones, key fobs, and a bag of unsalted peanuts. 

  "Look, these scripts don't match up." 

  "What scripts?" 

  "The scripts for this.  Meeting or whatever it is." 

  Scrunched up lips, more lipstick, a snapping shut of a clutch clasp. 

  A subtle seeing.  Then a most mature and rapidly aging people dash.  War flowing like lava to be survived. 

"Put the Torso on the Turbo."

  "Worldclass," a Sales Manager was explaining to a prospective client. 

  "Look at these.  That one's even able to read on it." 

  The treadmills outnumbered the rowing machines but not the bicycle machines with video of real world bicycling situation. 

  "Not even an (i)owie(i)?" 

  "That is something you will never hear me say." 

  "Is he the one?" 

  "Yes, the (i)interviewee(i)." 

  "I have malaria to boot." 

  "How's that work without an asshole?" A man in a very starched dress shirt and slacks approached. 

  The Torso grimaced. 

  "We can come back." 

  "NO!" 

  "Okay.  We'll stay." 

  "Did they call for me?" 

  "Been ram-rodding the Kelvin?" 

  The older men ignored the questioning junior Officer and stealthed into the room. 

"I don't know. My ethics are really messed up right now." To

  (i)Why aren't you guys here?(i) 

  "Come home, we'll go to Church." 

  "Well, that's good and I will, but" 

  "But what?" 

  "God and family first is true, but" 

  The pay phone booth actually rocked as more busloads of people swelled the environment. 

  Another phone picked up on the line.  A younger brother.  "Did you kill anyone yet?" 

  "What?! (i)Nooooooo(i).  But people are getting killed." 

  A quiet like the shadow of a wall blocking the sun on the phone. 

  Hands smushed on glass.  Palms and pointing.  A walking map and more pointing. 

  "I gottah go.  I love you all.  See you soon." 

  "Mine?" 

  "Yours."  A flood of people dressed for every season pushed past a knot of us.  Handed the video camera. 

  "Why's he gloating?" 

  A peek and emotional dig.  He was roostering.  "Not sure." 

  "Hot nuts!" He held out the little paperbag.  "And these," his other hand reached into a breast pocket. 

  "Thickets!" 

  "Do we go to a concert?" 

  "A lecture!" His smile swam from his heart and beamed white, white teeth beneath dark circle eyes. 

"We've been patching a rubber raft," the man declared.

  He pushed through a purposeful lingering around the tables with three thick contracts held close to his chest.  These were to be considered.  TBC was "the chopping block". 

  Someone complimented the man by saying (i)he cleans up well(i).  The man fished into his pocket for his wedding ring, resized and checkmarked picked up on the (i)Honey Do List(i).  Vipers, not exactly hissing. 

"We've" (i)cough, cough(i) "been here"

  (i)gasp(i) "be, be, be" 

  "Person passed out!!!!!" 

  Person behind in line hollah'd "FORE".  Thicker and thicker smoke and flamed gaseous chemicals making everything in the black and white viewfinder look tinted.  "Never been done before," and a smack on the back.  Then trampled. 

  A sigh.  Knowing "it doesn't get any tougher".  A suck on a wetted papertowel.  "Sorry I called you weak." 

  "Are you kidding me?  I mean, did you say sorry?" 

  A trembling nod. 

  "What you did that you owe me an apology for was like two Continents ago.  I'm (i)over it(i)."  A break down and hold. 

  Choking on environment and tears and words.  "Just tell me." 

  "Goo, goo, 

  "Good and bad both." 

  "It's, it's, it's

  "Here, use Mom's space pen." 

     (i)Infiltrated.  Taking over.  A peep from space, sats etc., shows us in spirals. (i) 

  "Okay.  On it.  Let me find a next commander and verify." 

  At first a while afterwards we thought, well, a lot of (i)speculation(i).  So, we all set out on a learning tour.  Because we'd hypothesized the enemy was just pinning us down in the Forest.  But we learned that the commiebots were all doing the same method of attack, also in cities! 

  "That's like..." 

  "Similar to..." 

  "Comparables, got it." Someone drew on a whiteboard what looked like "gameplans". 

  "Makes sense since back in the Opium Wars, what was in the magazines?!" 

  Snores. 

  "I'm the only one WHO STUDIED THIS SHIT??!!" A book whacked on a table. 

  "LOOK AT THIS!" 

"It took awhile," the woman listened to the woman say.

  

  "IT'S ANOTHER ONE!" A small towhead child with fine hair knots held the salamander-like organic thing in the air.  "Why does it only have two legs?" Asked a photographer. 

  "Isn't that the woman?" 

  "What woman?" 

  "The woman who had her moment of craziness on the trailer in the parade?" 

  "She was speaking for a lot of us.  How Israel was making us feel." 

  "She wasn't speaking." 

  "She was being symbolic.  But not lighting her self on fire." 

  Someone had said, (i)we're turning into our parents(i), but somebody else had said, (i)more like our grandparents(i).  "Remember those?" 

  "Either somebody is going to intervene or," an eternal team captain was fighting against his natural loud, "We're going to..." The sentence barely hung there before a woman said, not with sarcasm, but with the embattled show-voice like on Broadway, "She's going to have to be embalmed." 

  "The man is grieving." 

  "That's GROSS!" A woman said and asked to pick up one of the babies. 

"You heard the joke right?!" The kid asked.

  The man poured another snort of brandy.  "I heard it." 

  "What was the punchline? I had to pee." 

  "Guy gets to heaven and eats his can of tuna (i)with God(i)." 

  Against a backdrop of the "ball dropping" on a TV. 

  "Approximately eight.  People." 

  The whiteboard still bore the question:  (i)What is truth?(i). 

  "I did." 

  "What do they want?" 

  "They don't want war." 

  "We had to." 

  "They want (i)RomComs(i)." 

  "But the romance is gone." 

  "Maybe that's why." 

"Where are you?"

  "Well you're the one who called me, you should know." 

  "But it's a cell phone." 

  "It smells like a jungle." 

  "Are you saying (i)you don't know(i)?" 

  "I'll call you back." 

  Guys snoring all over the sofa.  Dark kitchen.  Sink water.  Glass hitting against faucet in a (i)scared ya(i).  The voice quiet but loud.  "So you're their woman now?!" 

  "Not sure about that.  Or anything really, after last night." 

  "What happened last night?" Lights flicked on.  Barefeet.  Smooth broadboard floor.  Face being looked at closely.  "I, uh, guess, um, it depends on who you ask." 

  "Well, I'm asking you.  And this is Greece by the way.  It smells like vegetation and air and Sea, not a jungle." 

  "Might smell like a jungle to me." 

  "I didn't ask you that." 

  Silence.  She finished pouring a glass of water.  Strong slender hand brushing spilled water into sink.  Staring.  "Did you want it back in the glass? I know my sons said you're (i)conservative(i)." 

  "I'm in an apolitical couple days." 

  "It didn't look like much." 

  "You saw us?" 

  "Sitting on the sofa all night." 

  "But it seemed like we weren't."  The smooth back of a hand to a forehead.  "Feverish?" 

  "Not really.  We've just done so much traveling together and other stuff and not really, like a break.  Like when you swim all day and are still swimming in bed at night." 

  "Everybody up!" The woman flicked on lights in the sitting room.  The guys came to.  "I like her," she announced.  Yawns.  Scratches.  "Wild dreams." 

  "Maybe because we were talking about the leopard." 

"Whoa." One of the three girl women said.

  (i)whoa(i) said another.  The third, "Big whoa". 

  "Mind blown?" Asked the guy. 

  Nods and one feeling the outside of her head. 

  "What (i)do you(i) think about that?" 

  The man cringed.  "Honestly I think you should all be women of the Bible." 

  "Well, that's not happening.  That was a long time ago." 

  "Yeah, they're not writing anything new in there." 

  "But," one thought hard, "I can't really believe this is all (i)narrative(i) now either." 

  "Should we cancel this?" A subsciption which stood or laid on the table like a bird that had smacked into a glass replica of sky. 

  "Not only that, but, doesn't it mean, like, I mean, everybody writes different right?!" Everyone nodded and eyed the mod Lit magazine.  "So wouldn't that mean there's a lot of versions of the narrative?" 

  One person slightly turned and held on to the back of a chair.  Another dug through shelves for a dictionary.  "Does it mean we're just (i)pretenders(i)?" 

  "Why are the bills still sitting on the table?" 

  The guy looked up over his reading glasses.  "Well, that's (i)their(i) narrative.  I don't feel I owe that much." 

  "Maybe it's like, like, um, like how we all went to war and (i)fought hard(i) but since then, um, some of us don't believe in war." 

  "Okay, I just gotta say, I meet Veterans everyday missing legs and other things, and (i)war is real(i)." 

  "Of course! Not saying it's not (i)real(i)." 

  "What are you saying?" 

  "Maybe.  I dunno.  This (i)is hard(i), especially out loud." 

  "We're not (i)the judges(i)." 

  "What happens in Vegas?" 

  "Like maybe that's what it means." A glance at the sequestered magazine. 

  "Like everybody has an (i)opinion(i)!" 

  "Everybody does." 

"What did your scab say?"

  "Why?" 

  "Well, that's probably what got published." 

  "From the mouth of babes." 

  "Where'd you all come from?" 

  "Derbyland." 

  "Paducah?" 

  "Paducah.  Must've been." 

  "Planeloads." 

  "Of those?" 

  "Disguised as us." 

  "At least (i)on paper(i)." 

"We have to be really careful about

  sharing words," was said amongst work groups.  "What did you say?" A writer/editor type asked as a wrecking ball thwacked the building upstairs.  Someone rolled up the blueprints. 

  "Why?" 

  "Because we're in multi-disciplinary, multi-cultural groups today." 

  "Why's that matter?" 

  "Timing, processes." 

  "Union fighting." 

  "Strike that please." 

  "Why?" 

  "Not allowed to say fighting." 

  "Like not allowed to say God in certain places?!" 

  "Uh huh.  Move your feet, lose your seat." 

  "Lose your seat, it's the freezer or the abyss." 

  Dust clouding the street air, coating thrift store outfits and hardhats.

The tales of the 1990s decade

  were some scattered, some lost, and some as reminders of the complexities of cultural, land, and resource warring. 

  At points throughout there wasn't hardly anyone who wouldn't affirm, (i)this is all warfare(i).  "It couldn't be," both peace activists and strategic deniers swore.  Behind closed doors and in gravely serious tones there was concern. 

  At the same time (i)adherence to values(i) was hammering on the shield of unity.  It wasn't that American unity didn't exist, but the greater forces were swirling most issues into "gray area" and so, posing much of realism into opposition.  In the Arts, Letters, Medical, and Military most issues became cases, and then the arguments of "What are you? A special case?" 

  There was vehemence to social justice especially as what had been a democratic Republic corporatized.  Stalwarts defending the USA, USA were often left wondering about (i)homeland(i) and which jurisdiction "the issue" fell into.  Whichever, thwarters to the success of the Country (i)for everyone(i) found purchase in institutions and attending processes which could be jolted in various ways and even disrupted. 

  "Our propaganda isn't holding up Cap'n," techies were on the brunt end of conversations about (i)How could this happen?(i). But like churches assuming they just weren't "outreaching" properly, the world was shifting quicksand.  There was an (i)all hands on deck(i), (i)put your thinking caps on(i) sentiment to the camps and groupings, but also derailments.  And plenty of bulldozing and occupation too. 

  "Since when did Intellectual become an Occupation?" A blank stare, been-at-the-office-all-day person asked a pauper who filed anyway.  No answer; such was the churn of "crazy" running its courses.  Physical bodies displaced by ideology and ideas/monies.  (i)Nothing new(i), the poor shrugged it off...one more day and...

  "(i)There are rules(i)," people manning anything smacking of "community" warned.  A lot of ambitious people took that as the thing to fight against.  Some (i)within reason(i), many no holds bar, and intriguers bothered to lie. 

  "Let's just do our own thing," was a sort of "Don't tread on me" that was mostly fun and games (i)until(i). 

  "You gave him all dah money?" 

  "Money's not real real." The credit bills mounted and the debt rose and rose and rose. 

  "Can I have a pair of pants?" People in Services asked.  "You may buy a pair," most were told.  "It's the same thing at Staples." 

  Joining Services was made an impalpably heavier weight in decision-making despite the Sterns reminding, (i)Three square in prison(i).  By that time ex-cons might quip, "Yeah two pieces of white bread and something called bologna." 

  "How do we re-find (i)our sense of(i)..." an interpreter named group feelings because of "fine print" attached even to Happy Meals. 

  There were a lot of (i)interim phases(i). 

  At a Salvation Army shelter... 

     "Are you really going to go?" 

     "To the women's group?" 

     A terse nod.  "Hell no.  My man be coming up.  I saved $6.99 for a Big Mac we gonna share." 

  The younger girl making mental notes of every word, every expression, every breath.  A ranked woman coming along.  "Is the gab work-related?" 

  "No m'am." Eyes sinking lights. 

  "Then I suggest you zip it." 

  "I am." Another woman called out. 

  The younger girl hiding a sudden look of astonishment.  "Her hair pretty too." 

  "It is," said the bigger sister type.  "Why don't you find out her beauty secrets." 

  "Seems stacked against us." 

  "It does." The man, newly salaried, immovable on both working. 

  Inside a van..." technology" cramming every inch/centimeter...

  "Bloody farthead! Show me that friggin' thing again [an atomic clock counting down to nuclear wasteland] and I'll, (i)I'll(i) 

  The stock photo flashed again. 

  "Gimme that joystick," one man to another.  Text moves on one monitor enabled a grenade launcher and (i)whoooosh(i) the man verbally penned the sound into a microphone.  A guy a half a world away grunted an (i)Oy(i) and literally put a moped visor in front of a videocamera that had written lettering that read: 

          SPLAT 

  "Welcome to the postmodern world superimposed on everything we thought we knew." 

"We'll let you opine then."

  It was a long way until then. 

  "It's more like the end of that book," an eye glance in the direction of a knapsack's contents.  "At least, right now, there, like a tide went out." 

  Physical bodies sitting on a train of a building's second floor.  Might have been a split ranch mall, but had been some sort of palace.  A diversity of writers and editors, videographers, documentarists, movie makers, visionaries and fact finders.  Minds flying around to (i)make sense(i) of it, (i)war(i). 

  "How do you think I feel?!  You've used me as a, a thumbtack!" 

  "Do you mean pushpin?" 

  "I mean," the woman looked around at the enormous walls of the place, "I mean to say that all my life I've (i)reported(i) these things, (i)NOT(i) established frontlines." 

  "At least there weren't flamethrowers." 

  "You keep out of it." 

  "How can I? It's literally all around us." 

  "Don't catch the fever!  It's madness." 

  "Is she angry?" 

  "She has an actual deadline." 

  "What is it?" 

  "It's supposed to be a fish.  I paid for a fresh catch du jour." 

  "Honey, nothing is fresh here this time of year."  A man gently smacked the nightgowned woman on the duffer.  "Oooooo, except the men." 

  The brown paper tied with a bakery string was put on a table.  Carefully opened.  Newspapers and a handgun. 

  People milling about made espresso and started reading the papers. 

  One from the States had eyeholes cut in the print.  People carefully opened each newspaper.  A column missing here, a column glued beside another column there. 

  "There must be one from every country here." 

  Another woman barefoot padded into the kitchen. 

  "She doesn't have her glasses on," someone narrated. "Get my purse," she ordered as she stuck a used tea bag in her mouth. 

  "It's not ON THE BOOT." 

  "Do you feel kidnapped?" 

  "Is there an island, uh, south of the boot?" 

  "Several." 

  "Keep looking."