An Excerpt

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     Once, after some lively repartee with a rather astute jackrabbit whom the river had known for some time, it came to a small, flat clearing and flowed out, away from the woods, towards the edge of a rocky cliff.  Upon arriving in the open, it was stunned by the majestic view: like an ant looking out from the center of a crumpled and ripped piece of verdigris construction paper, the river was surrounded by a jagged, cuneiform earth.  Vast expanses of lush valleys dotted with enormous, gray boulders and bushy treetops, and soaring, snowcapped crests stretched forth before it in every direction.  The land rose and fell sharply, folding over itself in blooming corrugation, juxtaposing deep caverns against tall, vertical ridges.  Distant, looming peaks shrouded in delicate, egg-white mist appeared unnaturally tall, seeming to rise to the farthest reaches of empyrean, stabbing at heaven with their incredible height, unafraid at the prospect of poking holes in God.  A half circle of glowing orange peeked out from behind the western mountains, miniscule compared with the colossal mounds of earth surrounding; a mere pixel of light among oversized pyramids.  Soft rays of amber shone out from it, bouncing off the bottom of the clouds and casting long shadows in the world below.  The river stopped and stared.  It unfocused its vision and still couldn’t take everything in; the brilliance of the forest canopies, shining like jade in the light of the slowly setting sun, stretched way out into the peripheries of space, wrapping around the mountain like a living, green model of the universe.  A solitary white bird, wingspan like a private jet, glided gracefully through the breeze, turning summersaults over the pointed, rocky islands rising out of the bowels of the earth.  Gusts of wind stroked the leaves in the trees and a thousand animals crawled over the mountains’ surfaces; to the river’s unfocused vision, it looked like the land was breathing. 
     The river crept out farther still, enamored with the beautiful landscape.  Across the valley to the right, a sprawling tree shook with thunderous force and a shapeless cloud of black arose.  Like a giant swarm of gnats, the cloud flew away from the tree, shifting and rearranging but maintaining its structure with the fluidity of a floating, amorphous blob.  The hushed echo of distant, beating feathers pulsed through the mountains in waves like sonar.  The black mass climbed higher, expanding and elongating, recentering and condensing; each individual pulled in his own direction, eager to lead, yet the whole remained intact.  Then, with impressive groupthink, the cluster of birds descended onto a new tree, disappearing into its depths with the quiet rustling of leaves. 
     The fertile milieu swelled uncontrollably, engulfing the river as it flowed farther into the open, pulled forward as though hypnotized.  A gentile shushing filled the air and grew louder as the world became larger.  The river stopped staring.  It lay back, floating along in comfortable absentmindedness, relaxed by the verdant serenity, resting happily in its bed and looking up into the fading gold of early evening.  Then, suddenly, it wasn’t.  The sky fell down and the world spun around in a tumbling orgy of rock and tree, animal and cloud.  The shushing increased and the water smashed into the mountain’s side, tore off chunks of dirt and rock, and threw them down into the chaos below.   Valley green and blazing orange and dirty brown and foamy white images slid over one another in rapid succession, melting together and replacing each other like a psychedelic kaleidoscope on fast forward.  The shushing became crashing and the river was stretched to its limits; it broke apart into sections, each falling on its accord, and raced itself to the bottom with violent celerity.  These oversized, speeding teardrops were swallowed up by a mist so dense the river could no longer tell if it was falling, floating, or flying.  Inside the viscous opaque of wet, gray molasses, directions were alien and meaningless; up and down, forwards and backwards, left and right, these were words without context.  The river hovered in uneasy paresis, unable to flow, going nowhere, discerning nothing in the foggy purgatory. Then: a brutal collision and spreading darkness, and the world turned black.
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Government Run

A line of folded papers winds around the counter corner
Like a snake painted by Picasso that was hurriedly made to order.
The line grows longer every time a new victim appears,
Drops his papers, finds a seat, and waits to pay arrears.
The new ones can tell from disgruntled faces The Man hasn’t yet arrived.
They hope it won’t be long now, but aren’t prepared to be surprised.
Eventually there are no more seats and the new arrivals stand
And crowd around in corners, speaking softly, and discreetly
Looking over their shoulders every so often just to see the
Papers they brought have not been moved by other’s impatient hands.
Time drags on as though it were burdened by heavy weight.
The payers sit and stand and walk and talk and think and wait.

At the other end of the office, a large mass of people cluster
Around a service window at the counter in the corner. 
The Other Man behind the glass tries occasionally to muster
Up the strength to yell for them to keep themselves in order.
But his pleas only fall upon deaf ears; these people are accustomed
To situations where strong survive and weak given no quarter.
Aggressive newcomers come in and slide along the western wall,
Or else they circle round outside to get ahead of all;
They take advantage of interstices left by those departing.
The timid are stranded in the middle, surrounded by obnoxious
Folk who won’t push to close the gaps the sly ones fill so smartly. 
The elbows, glares, and arguments are inherent to the process.

Beside the throng is another window, the front of which is empty
Save two men in leather shoes with white papers aplenty.
The Woman behind the glass is busy typing on her screen.
She sometimes looks at papers and asks the men to sign here please.
When the last contract is printed, and all the signatures are written,
She alights from her chair and heads to the back of the office for a rest,
To have a snack from the private kitchen, or call the man with whom she’s smitten,
And generally not work or worry about the office guests.

Meanwhile, the owners of folded white papers are sitting, getting restless.
“Don’t they want our money?”  “They really must detest us!”
“The Other Man told me nine o’clock, its fifteen to ten right now!”
“I have to deal with this every time I step foot in this place.”
Facial sweat is sponged away as a shirt sleeve wipes a brow.
The women wave their hands to cool the air around their face.
They talk amongst themselves, but to whom could they complain?
This is no private business, no, the government runs this game.
The only game in town, in fact, this electric monopoly.
I’d switch providers but lack of choice is what is stopping me.
So I sit and wait, like all the rest, to pay my portion due.
Hoping that The Man will come and I’ll quickly be through.
So listen with care and heed my words, for I’ve been there and done it:
If you want it to work as it properly should, don’t let the government run it.

Extraordinarily Average

      He was extraordinarily average and had decided long ago to be so.  It wasn’t one, life-altering, conscious decision that had been made, but the cumulative effect of a collection of smaller, less imposing decisions that had turned him into what he had become.  He was average in a way that few are; good at everything, great at nothing.  He was the jack of all trades that would never become king.  He had no aces up his sleeve and no queen on his arm.  Surrounded by jokers in a world unfit for his acquiescence, he lived a life too short for his ambitions.  Too lacking in attention to ever focus on one thing long enough to master it, he preferred instead to move on to the next once the average had been achieved; the modern day Renaissance man.
      Most things came to him effortlessly and he paid no attention to the rest.  He remembered with ease the names of people he deemed important enough to remember and quickly forgot without second thought the names and information of those he did not.  He spoke multiple languages to varying degrees under the pretence that he wanted to be able to talk to everyone, but in fact, he preferred the silence and would raise a solitary eyebrow when he heard people describe it as awkward.  His modesty was a byproduct of trained politeness and, when outshined by his natural confidence, appeared forced to those who lacked their own and were threatened by anyone who walked with their back straight and chin up, though his gait was different.  He was fit but not muscular; body of a runner.  Light tan in the winter that he’d kept from the summer.  A writer and a reader.  More a giver than a needer.  A low-income housing builder and a soup kitchen feeder.  Raised as a Christian, he lived like a Buddhist.  Tried to be Muslim but kept following the Tao.  He was two continents short of seeing the world and he knew that once that goal was accomplished it would mean nothing in the scheme of things and he would therefore have to design a new goal which, once completed, would be replaced by yet another.  There would always be more so he would never be done.
      His lack of passion often led to ennui, which, in turn, would have led to depression if he hadn’t been too proud for that sort of thing.  He kept his sanity be challenging himself to accomplish certain tasks, large and small, and each item crossed off of his checklist was added to the collection without ceremony or enthusiasm; just another thing done. 
      Eventually he would find what he was looking for, but first, he would have to start searching.

To Marrakech

      Wind blasted through the open doorway and made the hair of all parties involved dance like deep-rooted wheat caught in a hurricane.  The grassy plains of Morocco swept past with a flourish; the foreground flashed by in milliseconds while the northern slopes of the Lower Atlas Mountains, rising just an inch or so above the horizon, slowly crawled along in the distance.  The air was heavy and clear, and redolent of rain, but no clouds were visible through the three-by-eight metal frame. 
      Inside, two men were handling with much asperity a third who, for his part, was working to free himself of their grip and trying his best to calm the pair with mellifluous speech; actions which did not serve to decrease the roughness with which they laid hands on him.  The shorter of the aggressors was dressed sharply in a conductor’s uniform and hat; buttons done all the way up, shirt tucked, shoes shined, and metal-framed glasses sitting way up on his nose.  His drooping jowls were flushed from prolonged physical exertion and his thick, graying mustache had tiny drops of perspiration collecting at the corners.  His partner was dressed in similar colors and fashion, though without the jacket, hat, or attention to detail.  He was taller and younger than the other, and displayed the diffident obsequiousness of a new employee.  Though his grip was tight and his feet were firmly planted, his wide eyes and dilated pupils betrayed his surprise and fear at the redoubtable situation.  The third man was facing the other two, back to the doorway, arms out to either side intensely grabbing at the various extraneous metal protrusions inherent in large, 20th century mechanical apparatuses.  His sallow face was lean and tan.  His dark, narrow eyes darted back and forth between the two on-comers and the sides of the car where his hands were fighting furiously for new grips to grab.  Never once did he look back over his shoulder.  A river of unctuous declarations poured forth from his mouth without stop; though he was constantly shifting and fighting and ducking and grabbing, adroitly maneuvering so as to stay erect and inside, his words never once halted; he spoke like a garrulous charlatan at a Gullible Peoples Anonymous meeting.  A tightly packed throng of bystanders stood staring over the shoulders of the two ticket collectors with rapt attention, eyes wide and mouths agape.  As the noise grew louder, more riders left their seats and joined the crowd, pushing and straining to get closer until all interstices had been eliminated.  And so they all stood, bunched together like cattle, calves burning from standing on tiptoe, watching the melee unfold.
      Next stop: Mechra-Benabbou, seven kilometers.