“HEATHENS IN THE GALLERY”
BY SHEB SCHEBELLA
There I sit
in wind swept frost; the gods above proclaim their cost. The fees are paid upon
their thrones while demons in the gallery cast out the heathen bones. The temperature rises and I find myself
alone, the bed is cold, and my window is a mile away from the nearest place of
rest.
I stumble
down an icy hall, I find a shadow there that is not my own but I don’t stop to
wonder. The bath is running over onto the floor I don’t remember the water
being red before but, it has been so long since I have been down to the sea,
perhaps it is the moon tonight that makes it all seem this way.
All I know
is that I suppose I am bound; bound to pay the fees. All I have to do is order
now but, wait there’s more; 17 Ginsu Knives and a Gideon’s Bible hollowed out
to store them in. It is another apocalyptic deal and if I can get three more
souls to sign up for the offer then they have promised me a set of radial snow
tires for my Oldsmobile. Like a chariot of fire I shall heat the street.
I suppose it
is the living that keeps me from going out at night and ammunition for the soul
is getting tougher to come by in the village at the late night café.
The
neighbor’s dog is clawing at door, the coyotes are on the prowl and they want
his flesh; I can only imagine they ate his owner as he preached the scripture
down on the corner while wearing his Sunday’s best. All arms flailing and
gibberish in tongue must have lured them in from the slums.
The sinners
seem to have no problem keeping up; it is the ones that lose their faith that
fall behind; I assume by looking around to see where they have dropped it in
the pitch of night and then there it is that jealous hate, that spooky little
phantom they love to negate with a prescribed pill times nine and a box of
white wine.
The clocks have stopped ticking, the chimes
have grown dusty, and the parlor is never anymore filled with dance. The cable
man stands outside looking in; he wants to sell me a Wi-Fi package. I give him
the finger and just stare back at him. I know he is Big Brother’s nephew Floyd,
Prick.
The Gods are
here for tea, so I have to go now and hang up their coats, I am still not clear
why none of them wear hats. I see their followers waiting outside; I won’t
invite them in because I know they are with the cable guy. But wait, there is
so much more, perhaps another time.
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