As I headed swiftly through the upstairs living room toward the shower this morning I found myself the victim of about six seconds exposure to the Satan-box.(TV) A dark haired women stood in front of a cemetary holding a microphone to her mouth. From the bottom of the screen a few words were recorded in my mind: "Hundred," "graves," "Indiana," "opened up."
The dark haired women spoke. "...families are now being restricted from entering the graveyard, as many who have already been inside now report seeing bones lying about the open graves..."
I kept walking passed, like I do each morning, limiting my exposure to the thick, yellow mucous of insanity that comes oozing from that unholy tube. But this time I found myself smiling. That sentence and those words - the sunny, green and blue vista before which the woman stood as she said them, all in combination, made me really happy for some reason.
What I imagine, see, is that a group of like-minded people got together last night with some shovels and whatnot, and just went nuts digging up graves; tearing open rotting caskets; whipping the decayed remains of the long dead all over the dirt covered remnants of a previously well-manicured lawn! Muddy footprints track back and forth all over and around the open holes, their paths spotted with the off-white splinters of thigh bones and detached ribs gleaming like treasure under the sunny blue skies overhead. And today, this morning, the cops are all standing out there with their hands on their hips, their hats leaned way back, mouths hanging open, not sure where to start, what to do, or who exactly to blame, with this heretofore inconceivable act of heretical vandalism.
Maybe that's not what happened. Maybe a tornado set down in the graveyard or something. That makes more sense, I guess. But in my mind I want to believe it was the work of wild-eyed, crazy grave vandals.
And I fucking love it, man! I suddenly want to be a grave vandal too! I want to go out at midnight in black face with uneven tribal markings smeared across my cheeks and blazing white rings painted round my eyes, half naked, in a dirty pair of old blue jeans with the legs, not cut, but torn off; worn off by time. I want to swing a pick axe into the hallowed ground of some old dead guy's final resting place until the soil is black and workable. I want to dig my fingernails, knuckles, and forearms into the soft, wormy silt, feeling blindly, wildly, for a coffin's lid. I want to catch it in my hands and in one powerful, sweeping motion fling it away and out of the hole, sending up a spray of rich black dirt across a lawn made blue-green beneath the soft yellow light of a full moon. I want to fill my eyes with the yet undisturbed bones of some ancient soul whose long since left them to rot; to try and make out how they used to come together to form a man. I want to take them up, to feel them in my hands and arms, rolled between my fingers; the sensation of light, dry bones clinking against each other like wind chimes, the emptiness of the chamber wherein the marrow once grew resonating a faint musical note. I want to carry them out of the hole, a tangled mess of some dead man's frame - the smaller ones falling carelessly away as I struggle to the surface. In one explosive motion I want to thrust them all out and upward into the sky. I want to make it rain bones!
...You think there's something wrong with me?
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