This is not a verse of rejection Here you won’t find anything averse It is just one last interjection Mere words of gratefulness And vowels and consonants of joy So many days filled with pleasure The reading and writing The lilt and slant of so many voices. Taking the time to hold a moment Of what is in another’s mind and soul A great ‘thank you’ to all who read and write In the early morning or late at night - There are always comings and goings The happy greetings, and sad goodbyes - But this one here is a fare-well-farewell A bright wish of the Muses’ blessings For each and everyone! The time has come, my wings grown strong Unfold and stretch to carry me on As I fly away that wish will stay:

Happy Writing and Keep Up the Good Work!

The click of claws, the stamp of hooves, the chitter-chatter of fangs filled our first night in the cabin we had rented for two weeks of relaxation.

Something which we never found on that desperate vacation to get away from it all… we did get away, but we found something else… or it found us.

We would be changed.

One thing we could definitely say - it was or they were nocturnal - we weren’t sure if it was one, or a pack. And we weren’t sure at all what we were dealing with.

It certainly was a beast, some kind of creature that did not want to be seen.

My wife wanted to leave after the first night, after the long darkness from dusk to dawn - the long wheezing, whimpering, scratches, and howls.

I told her there was nothing to be afraid of, it must be harmless. It didn’t seem to want to attack. But we kept the windows sealed tight and the door locked and jammed with an armchair and cabinet.

We still weren’t sure if we could keep it out.

It was only in the night that the fear found us. When the sun rose the lakeshore brightened, the birds announced the joy of clean air with a pine and birch scent. The trout and salmon from the tumbling river were delicious and sweet. All around in the forest there was an abundance of berries, a cornucopia of red and blue to tempt the tongue. And mushrooms filled the damp leafed and fern floor; they plumped our pans. They were sautéed with butter and collected wild herbs.

A feast so simply foraged.

In the light, it was a paradise - an Eden that filled our bodies and minds. A bliss.

But then night came. We didn’t go out. We let the stars remain to themselves.

When we looked out we thought there was a faint glow from the ground and a luminescence in the lake.

We left the night to its own, we stayed in our wooden and stone oasis. We kept the fire burning, the candles aflame.

We prayed, but did not let each other know.

We trembled alone.

I always had my rifle propped on the wall next to the bed. My wife had her small pistol at the ready on the night table.

We slept, but not well.

The long wheezing, whimpering, scratches and howls. The long whining, growling, mewls, and yowls.

On the sixth day, I was also ready to leave. We boxed up our supplies, emptied the refrigerator, and decided to lose our deposit and not clean.

But we were not going anywhere, the tires of the car and even the trailer had been sliced and flattened in the night. There was no way to leave, a hike out would take at least two days, and there was no reception for our cellphones.

That had been the idea to get away from it all.

As we lugged all the supplies back to the house, I noticed the prints around in the mud. There were paws and hooves, talons and semi-human prints drying in the late morning sun.

Was it one, or was it pack?

We most certainly were not alone.

One more night might tell… if we survived.

We didn’t have to wait long. We began to see things more clearly… even in the night, as we became more nocturnal.

Those salmon and trout, those berries and mushrooms, those wild crafted herbs… they had flourished from the fallout from an alien ship that had crashed in the deep winter when no one was there to see the fireball hitting the lake and rising up in a mushroom shaped cloud.

It explained the faint glow and luminescence.

It explained the sloughing of our skin and our genetic rearrangement.

It explained it all.

My wife was the first to begin to wheeze, whimper, scratch and howl. Her limbs had reformed and ended in a hoof, a talon, a paw, and semi-human hand.

I next felt the stretch of what I had been into something else… whining, growling, mewls, and yowls. I only had hooves and paws, but something more… antlers sprouting and encircling my head.

We lost the light of day, our pupils swelled to swallow the night.

We walked out the door, we joined that pack of one. The first renter of the year who had come two weeks before us.

He had come to get away from it all, to find the bliss of fresh fish and forest food.

We waited in the night for the next visitors… we whimpered, wailed, and howled…

We no longer hungered after fish nor fowl, berry nor fungi…

…only those carrying the flesh we once had had…

It’s not easy starving at the top of the food chain.

A bat lives a life most vertical, at least during the day when for them the lights go out. They hang upside down, at least that’s what humans and most of the mammals say. But for them, it is right side up - to stand upright on two feet (or four) sounds like a terrible bore to them. It most certainly gives a backache and painful pressure on the soles. Better to fly through the air, or hang in sleep to let the blood go to your head - it makes dreams fuller and drives all nightmares away.

Those black and brown leathery mice just know how to live right! Maybe that’s why we dream of vampires - exotic, erotic, and ever so charming. Deep down do we wish to reach back to an evolutionary cousin and return to the caves and hang around with them?

Most creatures don’t know how beautiful it is to be Chiroptera - Greek for ‘hand wing’. They are the only mammals able to truly fly, much closer than even humans to the winged Angels high in the heavens, so close to the throne of God. And like those Seraphim and Cherubim, those bats - they croon and carol.

Most often to lower creatures, imperceptible.

Their song is not only about echolocation (bats always know just where they are - and more importantly why. They know not existential or spiritual anxiety. They are whole with and within themselves. That is why their notes reach the most high sounding register.)

It is a language of their own, in frequencies not audible to our weak ears. It is a high-pitched poetry that pleases the Muses, verses and stanzas and sweet rhythms telling of the secrets of a darkness filled with light. Do not be surprised if you see a bat hanging or flying in the night with a crown laurel upon their head, or a harp tucked between their wings being plucked with their tiny hands. A sound so soft, a sound so deep, a sound most elegant and appealing.

Most confuse it with the zephyr of dusk, or the midnight breeze, or the gust that signals dawn.

Listen close, you might learn something.

Whichever and whatever, just listen to and remember the flying bats’ song. Sadly, mostly none have heard the choral chant of the colony. A peaceful hymn to the grandeur of life.

So listen, listen and really hear. Forget all that propaganda told by those other mammals and their folklore. Bats are beautiful, their lives matter.

So, the next time your eyes widen to take in the night, and you see a flutter and flap of a shadow in the sky - make a bow to the angels of the night, to their song woven from the highest sounds, and their great kindness of clearing the air of mosquitoes and other tiny creatures that bite, taking our blood and leaving a welt.

Raise your eyes from the horizon, find a vertical hold - behold the majestic bat, that hand-winged… Chiroptera!

Now there are Swiss Army knives with their flicks and clicks that bring short blades, tiny clippers, and curly corkscrews to life; there are also Assassin’s Slayer knives that also flick and click with sharp edges of daggers, spikes, garrote wire, and detachable darts. Then in the handle the last deadly method of herbal poison or animal venom held in an unbreakable flask. Like its Swiss cousin, the Assassin’s slayer operates on a pivot point mechanism, a very clever spring that needs to be mastered.

Sicarius Tolpatsch, the second son of the second son of the second son’s son who founded The Desert Vipers’ Assassination Guild, was really trying his best. He knew killing and murder had a long tradition in their family line and in those two centuries not one of them had ever been caught or arrested after killing Sultans, Grand Viziers, Sheikhs and Rajas, or merchant debtors or spying whores.

There was gold, silver and gems to be made in the slitting of throats or poisoning of wine and lips. It was just a simple matter of a flick and a click of that spring holding just the right weapon needed. A simple matter that took great dexterity and sly cunning. Unfortunately, those were the two things that Sicarius Topatsch had been born without.

Instead he had been given a kind heart, creative mind, and sweet, deep voice.

What was the second son of the second son of the second son’s son who founded The Desert Viper’s Assassination Guild to do?

The ‘to do’ was clear, his father the Archassassin of the Guild sent him on his first (and hopefully only and last mission - he was an embarrassment to the family)to kill the Sultan’s daughter who had insulted a far away ruler for not accepting his offer of matrimony. Sicarius’ father was not worried at all, he had six wives in all, which meant he had the same amount of second sons to carry on the family business and tradition.

This son was really not needed, and would never bring in the hoped for profit.

So, that young lad with trembling hands and knocking knees was sent out into the night’s goosepimpling desert breeze, over three dunes and through one oasis, he came to the palace of the mighty Sultan. He scrambled up the stone and adobe walls, making more noise than a cat in heat. He was lucky, no one paid attention as there was a grand feast in progress in the royal gardens.

From behind vine wrapped coconut palms and lush date trees, he saw the Sultan dressed in blue and green silk. Emeralds and sapphires caught the torches light, and from his crown there were two feathers - one from a giant peacock, the other a grand roq. Next to him sat his daughter, a blooming rose in pink chiffon.

A natural beauty. A treat for the eyes.

Sicarius’ kind heart could never kill, not even the annoying sand flies. But he had his familial duty and slinked and slipped between the fountains and marble pillars, all the while trying to expertly open that Assassin’s Slayer knife. But nothing worked the way he wanted, the daggers and garrote wire sprang from their springs and lacerated the tips of his fingers. In a moan and a stumble, he found himself before the Sultan and his daughter.

Sicarius was no killer, but he was a natural charmer.

The Sultan rose from is throne with wide eyes, stroked his musk-oiled beard three times and said in a voice as loud as a desert dustdevil, “The fool has arrived!”

Sicarius thought fast, he took a bow, and made a mockery of the assassin’s calling. Those around laughed and laughed, some even until their large bellies began to jiggle in waves of silk. Tears came to their eyes when the glass vial of poison fell from his weapon and splashed on the marble into the air, there was a gasp of surprise from the audience. He calmed their fears as he danced a jig to avoid touching it as it burned a hole right through the hard stone.

The Sultan in a guttural guffaw let out, “That was the worst assassination attempt I’ve seen!”

The cheer did not stop, “Encore! Encore!” rang from every clove perfumed mouth.

Sicarius’ eyes were then captured by the Princess’s face and he suddenly began to sing… to sing a song sweeter than honey covered figs and dates.

And not just she, but all those around fell in love with Sicarius Tolpatsch - the Fool’s Assassin.

He was no killer and became part of the Sultan’s court. Then in a short while he was his son-in-law.

A perfect addition to the family, the second son of the second son of the second’s son son who founded The Desert Vipers’ Assassination Guild. He knew them all by name and face, brothers and cousins, and could keep that walled palace safe from them all.

He never had to spill blood or poison any veins, all he had to do was sing and dance to make those around him laugh… and love him even more!

They were the last to leave. Their footsteps the last to be placed upon the dying Mother who had given birth to them all, generation after generation. All that was gone now after billions of years of time.

Their ancestors had left the surface long ago, either up and away into the beckoning stars, or the few who could not bare to abandon where they were born, where their blood line had long flowed… they had gone down deep below.

Close to the warming core that was slowly losing its spin, they had built a paradise that they had never had above. Some had even forgotten that they lived deep in a shell, that was until what they called The Rumblings came.

Their holowalls and artificial star were shaken so badly that all those comforting hues faded to gray, white, and black.

Death had begun its prowl. Death for material, both inert and biological.

Their sun, once a happy lemon yellow, had finally swollen red into a gaseous boil. The Earth would end in fire, but not in that caused by a war-incensed mankind. They had left that all behind long ago.

Humans had grown peaceful in the need for survival.

Sharah was the last handyman to move the controls and keep the possibility of life going. Now, there was no button to push, nor lever to pull to save their millennial old habitat.

They were beyond that.

His mother, Aradia, had stayed with him to care for his son, Bitameen. His wife had left with another, years before as the first shockwaves pounded the hull.

He no longer felt any sadness about that, but he did mourn the loss of his world. He had been the one to keep it alive like a doctor who has a bedridden patient.

No hope, but a deep feeling of responsibility.

That tunnel was long. Like the long stretch from out of the womb, or the long stretch that places you in a tomb.

That last mile of transformation. As they walked along, not saying a word, not even hearing the soft pad of their soles - the machinery hummed. Slowly, each cell and twist of DNA was being changed. They were adapting, evolving in a steady, sedate plodding.

At the end of The Tunnel, a new world awaited… far away around a very young star… a planet green and blue, just like theirs circling perfectly in the habitable zone. But, it was only a one-way. No transport or information could ever come back from the other side. The Interstellar Gate engineers had never been able to solve that problem.

Yet, they had found an escape. Old style communication had told them that they could survive there, before the satellites far above had been consumed by the first thin outer layers of the sun.

They really didn’t know what expected them, just a new life. Survival for some.

That new life had already begun, Sharah looked at his mother and son. Their skin had changed to accommodate for a bright burning blue star, their eyes had added a triple lid that winked from above and from each side. The light there during the day would be much brighter than where they had long evolved. Their hair was gone, replaced by shimmering scales. Their weight had changed, there was a bit less gravity in their new home.

He felt the quickening pain that he was losing it all.

They stopped and held their breath, maybe the last of this specific mix of oxygen.

There was a quake and a short loss of power before the machines hummed again. They stood at the edge of the light and a new world.

He took each one of them in his arms. A hug that held time in an eternity of a moment.

He finally let them go.

They looked at him with their triple blinking eyes. At least they could still form tears.

They stepped into the in between light of two worlds.

And then… they were gone.

Sharah was the only one - genetically unalterable - no one knew why. So, that meant he had to stay behind.

Either side meant his death.

He was the last man standing, he’s the one who turned the lights out.

It starts out quite simple With little piggies going to market Whether with fingers or toes We start with almost pure decimals Eight fingers + two thumbs Or on the feet a perfect ten We reach our first twenty With adding and subtracting Tapping the fingers on the desk Squeezing those toes in our shoes Writing what is correct on the test These digits are a comfort Such fine names as Whole or Natural But numbers will not stop there They desire to be multiplied and divided Fractioned and still called Rational Yet, some lose their hold and Never come to an end, their numbers change To dot - dot - dot, just think of π…………………. Others go wild and mix with letters and [{(brackets)}] And other symbols far away from those familiar ten shapes- Algebraic, trigonomic, becoming irrational But not before they make us crazy In word problems of two trains, at two speeds Racing down two tracks, we must find when They’ll meet in a deadly crash of amounts Time, speed, and space lead to great doubts. Then we find physics to spin our heads around Numbers infinitesimal down a deep well below zero Or rising up out into the cosmos to infinity Exponential numbers crown their heads And leave us spinning, lost above the clouds Feeling as if we are falling into a daze- But savants have no problem and tame them- I, alas, remain with my fingers and toes Two dozen I can still figure out But three or more is beyond my reckoning And maybe in the end it doesn’t really matter There might only be a pair that gives us our existence You never know, we may end back at zero and one And find out that we have lived in only a simulation - Nothing but:

01100001 01100010 01100011

Our Universe: a binary dream or +, -, x a nightmare of numbers…

Uncle Artie was a strange fellow, but you just had to love him anyway.

And when I say strange, that’s just what I mean, all those synonyms fit perfectly for him: unusual, odd, peculiar, weird, uncanny, and queer. Yes, that last one had a double meaning, Uncle Artie had been married to Uncle Bob for many a year, until he died.

I’ll tell you, when I was newly orphaned and sent to ol’ Uncle Artie, I had no idea what to expect. My mother had hidden her brother from me all the first ten years of my life. Part of me understood why, but the other part of me learned to love him with my whole heart.

You see, Uncle Artie did not have eyes, a nose or mouth on his face. (Don’t worry, his ears were placed where they should be on the sides) And don’t worry again, he was not blind, mute, or senseless, these parts of him had been simply placed by Nature or God - whichever you believe in - on the back of his head.

Yes, he was one of the few people with eyes in the back of his head. And a nose and a mouth!

(It was also unfortunate for him, that he was the first one who smelled his release of flatulence from behind - I gave him the name Uncle Artie Farty after a lunch of burritos or an evening of bacon baked beans)

We always had a good laugh about that!

Now, since his head was on backwards - or at least his face - everything in his grand mansion ran in the opposite way. Not like an image reflected in a mirror, but everything was flipped backwards. That left me with being the one with the handicap, while he gracefully floated on tiptoes up the stairs and through the antique filled chambers and drawing room.

He wore fine silk suits that were buttoned in what we’d call the front, but he had the habit of wearing his bow ties not under his chin, but on the back of his neck, right under his mouth.

It was a bit screwy, wacky and cuckoo, sitting at the dining room table with the chair turned the wrong way and watching that polished silverware lift dainties to the back of a head and then through a well coiffured mop of hair, hearing the munch of teeth interspersed with polite conversation.

But when you’re ten-years-old, you can get used to anything. I did, and even learned to enjoy it. I felt unique and privileged living with such a fine example of humanity.

I loved my Uncle Artie and just wished I had also met my Uncle Bob. Uncle Artie told me that his face had had the correct proportions being on the ‘correct’ side (he cleared his throat when he said this and added, “According to the currently accepted norm”). It made cuddling in bed even better, since when they spooned their bodies they were always facing each other and could hear the happy beats of their hearts.

A true love story, I thought to myself, foreheaded and backheaded - two perfect bookends for life.

As I grew older there into my teens years, I adapted and became the coolest kid on the block. Halloween was perfect, Uncle Artie would answer the door with his blank face and from the back of his head he’d let out a hair muffled BOO! At first all the kids were terrified, but then they learned to love it - especially when there was a new kid on the block! They brought the poor soul to receive their first real scare!

We initiated them into a life of backwards and forwards, of diversity, and acceptance.

What a scream Uncle Artie could be.

Then the year came when I had graduated and packed my bags to go off to college. I could tell that Uncle Artie was dreading an empty nest.

But I had made a plan and searched through some dating sites. (The whole time I had lived there he had devoted his whole backward attention to me and nothing else, such a kind, curious man Uncle Artie was) And I had found a new possible partner, someone with a physical eccentricity and a name to match: Janus.

I wished them both well as I put my car in reverse, I drove backwards all the way to the college campus. A skill I had learned from Uncle and living with him.

I learned how to live life from all sides.

Shadows quivered upon the wall, the tallow candle lumped in its liquid fat. One flame was all that brought uneven light to the chamber. A deep breath, in and out, to find the vision.

The quill began its scratch into the vellum and the iron-gall ink began its flow into the etched ravine:

Ye, my Brothers, had besought and bade me to wit what shall come in a five hundred years time in MMXXII anno domini nostri Jesu Christi. Ye list to wot what the year shall shew. I tell you this, it shall be a time of light and darkness. Ave Maria, gratia plena.

Men, who shall not look much different than ourselves - though with particoat garments unusual and hair cut in most odd forms - shall still walk the Earth. Though their wagons have not a horse, their wheels quicken from some force of their own. Whether powered by Angels or fired by Hell, I cannot perpend and I am left to want in knowledge of that.

Ye may think I am unpregnant, but do not become wall-eyed. I have seen how the light of the Moon shall shine in the eyes of human offspring. A pale blue infernal trap shall adhere to hands and ears. Their fingers shall wildly tap- their hearts and words full of hate and vitriol - they look no more to sky nor ground - nor to the face of the other.

They look but into that infernal gleam, turn themselves from the Face of God. Gloria Patri, et filio, et spiritui sancto!

The Devil hath taken them; ravin they lose their souls ere Death dost seize them. Their eyes a blank stare, their thumb grown longer than the Demon Lamashtu’s.

A far future that bodeth not well.

I lapse and want the will to go on. Suffer me this that I draw the future no more. Ora pro nobis!

The quill quivered to a halt. The inkwell had dried, the candle gone out. A vision depleted, and to be no more.

Brother Provisus Lucidus was burned at the stake, none could believe his hellish vision. They thought it had been sent from the Dark Lord and was not a warning from the Most High and Holy God.

They were wrong, not all light comes from the triune Face of God.

The line had been drawn - two actually - one in front of the desk - the other in my mind. One had tiny flashing neon LEDs, the others were the neurons in my brain. Both flashed: DO NOT CROSS!

I didn’t want anyone to cross my line, I had just turned sixteen and my hormones made me feel uncomfortable around anyone, except my friend Bob. And this new teacher, was a special case. She had taken Ms Higgins place. Unbeknownst to any of us was that Ms Higgins had taught for over forty-three years there at the school, and with budget cuts and lower taxes, it was decided to send her into retirement before she got one more annual raise.

We never got to say goodbye. We had gone to her house after the first day of school, but the windows were empty without curtains. The mailbox was coughing up three months of mail, and a for sale sign wobbled in the wind with the autumn leaves. Hanging by one tiny link of chain was a flap of a sign that said: SOLD.

All of us felt sold out as we went back to the same homeroom class and found a young woman standing there in a Dior blouse, a Vera Wang skirt, and Dolce&Gabanna bewitching perfume. The girls chatted about her good taste, some of them even began to imitate her graceful moves and order similar clothes online. Their classmates - the boys - had difficulty concentrating as they watched the curves of her body from top to bottom undulate in hypnotic ripples.

We couldn’t complain that she was just a pretty object, her mind was sharp, her knowledge deep, and she was also so very, very kind.

Perfect in every way. Too perfect, I sensed - but nobody else.

They had fallen under her spell.

It was that line with those words ‘DO NOT CROSS!’ that was my greatest concern. Ms Maria Lang, she said we could use her first name if we liked, avoided direct contact with any of us, and always stayed within that 3 square meters of the box indicated on the floor.

No one else seemed to care, but I did. I had always been the class clown and troublemaker. But this time, I didn’t feel funny and only wanted to provoke.

The first time I tried to cross the line, an alarm went off and Ms Lang turned in my direction with a voice gone deep, “Perimeter breaches will not be tolerated. A new county law does not allow a student body to approach faculty closer than that line.”

She pointed down to the LEDs, which were now flashing red, and drew her finger in the air to reclaim her space. I would have tried to go further, but the door immediately swung open and Principal Rotwang stood with one hand on his hip and the other hand extended in a pointed finger at me, “No approaching the staff!”

I could feel the crimson rush of embarrassment press against my ruddy pimples. “Yes sir,” I said with a lowered chin in deference.

There seemed to be no way to get close to check out who Ms Maria Lang really was. And then, as they went on their way to history, math, biology, and all other subjects, they found the same educational limits… new teachers standing behind lines around their desks.

Most didn’t care, there were other more important things like what clothes to wear and how your hair should be combed. Those weren’t any of my concerns, I had my t-shirts and jeans and short shaved hair.

I thought at first they might have exchanged our teachers with some kind of androids, but I knew that was silly, we didn’t have that kind of technology yet.

So, my only plan left was to hide before class came to an end, and then wait to see when Ms Lang left, and follow her out the door.

But there was no need to go out the door.

As the last student exited the door I saw her freeze and then there was a flash. All the lights had gone out, I could barely see through the crack in the door from the old textbook closet. I realized that the staff had been replaced with educational holograms. The county could save an unbelievable amount of cash.

Maybe the principals were given extra bonuses to keep quiet.

I slowly made my way out of the room, hoping not to activate any alarms or the Holo itself. The halls were quiet and dark, except for a hum and flicker from the Faculty Lounge.

I tip-toed and slithered in the that direction. With a smooth, quiet move I turned the knob and pulled.

And there they were, all the former teachers laid out on tilted chairs with tubes and wires running from their bodies. I realized then that the faculty body still needed the brains of humans to keep them under control.

Ms Lang was actually a perfect form of Ms Higgins. One retired, the other just starting to work.

I gasped.

Then, I gasped again as a hand came down on my shoulder.

I turned round and saw Principal Rotwang.

Then his hand was on my throat. It wasn’t warm or human fleshy. It was tight titanium strength.

As my last breath was squeezed from my throat, I realized that they did have the technology to make androids… it was just holograms were so much cheaper for most of the staff.

And then the lights went out.

An actor I am but not upon the stage I’m two-dimensional, start blank as a page But my body slowly appears in ink Black boned words that may sink in tears Bring or allay the deepest of fears

My form appears in verse, stanzas birth The who I shall be and express the why Each word carefully placed - to rhyme - or not Placed in meticulous schemes of girth To create an emotion, both truth and lies

I may place upon my head a Renaissance bonnet When said or lute-sung aloud, I become a sonnet I may stretch my chest in deeply felt odes Of great heroes (and heroines) haughty boasts Glasses raised high in here-here toasts Or my voice may rise sarcastic and rοast

I have black robes and long hanging veils For dirges and laments and funereal abodes Yet, I also have tight pants and red feather boas For the lighter and sexier erotic love poems I can wear the mask of both Death and L’Amour

I may be gilded and honored in collected works Volume I-XX Or I may simply appear on a greeting card with wishes aplenty Some of you may know me as the crumpled note in your pocket Sometimes I am held with longing in a lover’s locket But whatever my costume and appearance, my language - I’ll always be the same in my black bones on the fleshy white page:

A Poem.