REVISION #9 OF AN OPEN WINDOW

So when Van Helsing found your castanets tangled in my sheets the other night I told him about you.

"You know," I said, "I think that Gypsy Dancer down at the Dreamland is a vampire."

"How do you know?" he asked me.

"Well when I said I almost died, she just got that hungry look."

"Hmmm, if I were you I'd quit falling asleep by that open window," the Prof. said.

"But I love the fresh air," was all I could think of to say.

"It's all that dying," I told you later, the next time you came in the window. "It makes me depressed, but wise."

"Oh how sad," you'd said and "I will pray for you," then without missing a breath you told me the story of your latest meal or maybe it was your last heartbreak; I am too weak to remember.

"I asked you once if you could love," I cried, "and even though you said 'Yes' I still think you haven't learned to speak my language."

You just smiled and took another bite. I love the way your thighs do that thing they do.

"Now I don't want to complain," I sighed, "but the next time you take a jug of my blood down to your jaded friends, the ones who don't even know me, couldn't you at least tell them who it came from?"

You smiled that reddish smile and promised to but you never remember what you said to me or lied to me or didn't say to me the way you impale yourself on my wooden stake, I expect you to die!

But "So why shouldn't I close that window?" was all I could think of to hurt you with.

"It's sad," I said later. "and I am tired of people saying 'you've been dying long enough, why don't you get it over with? borrrring!'"

And you whispered in my ear 'That's nice dear' while your music dulled the rhythm of my slowing heart. I always know you're in the mood by how your wings spread.

Van Helsing called again last night and asked me how the salve is doing on those little holes in my neck.

"I think it's working a little," I told him, "That and the fresh air."

An Open Window first appeared in Dream International Quarterly.

COLD BLOW ZE WINDSAMARS

Ze tommydawgs lay passed out behind Ed's bar, having half-drained ze barrel o' rum in zere quest to drown sorrow. Over ze tappity-tap o' Cap'ns Booty and Proto's resculpturing of ze figgerhead, zere was ze sharp hisssss of unsquelched whitenoise coming outta ze speakers in ze radio shack.

At first, Long Tom had merely repeated ze call sign over and over and over and over, "Tommy can ye hear me?" first in binary, zen spitting into ze open mike, and finally tapping it wid ze empty Dutch gin bottle against ze bare wires o' ze\code key. Zen he fiddled wid da receiver controls and ze hyper-spacdirectional antennae arrays, lissenin' for ze Pyrate Radio signal just off ze coast of French eternity.

"I heard it," muttered Long Tom to hisself (although Foo was cooped up on ze couch and OD-sleepy from ze drogs). "I swear to gawd I head it.

"T'was a signal. The Tommykins*is already spinning celestial vinyl and interviewing Keith Moon and Jimmy Hendrix on Ze Pyrate Radio, 50 billion watts. He's gonna have Lou Rawls on after the break," he said, to no one. "I heard it."

Ze empty bottle now jus' rolled acrost ze deck as ze Pearl swayed
back and forth in ze sandswells.

Ed tippy-hoofed carefully over ze tommydawgs, pounding ze last few
hammer-blows into ze rum cask lid which set it on wid just ze right amount of wedged crookedness.

"I can't taste `im." This Be said, catching a few drippy-drops from ze bung-spout drippin' on ze tommydawgs' snouts.

"Ye couldn't taste Admiral Nelson neither, they say, fer the first month," Ed said.

This Be shrugged and turned back to painting ze poem over ze barback,
sippin' ze Tommyrum from one o' ze silver booty cups she had fetched from ze treasure hold.

Ed stood back and squinted while he read ze poem to hisself.

Easy, after all

-I-
There's no surety in this flight,
Tumbling as we do
Without wings,
But to spread arms against
The brutal wind which,
Perhaps, will carry us.

-II-
When the sun swings low
And leaves beat against
Electric air with
The furious joy of those
Soon mulch, then
Mysteries are revealed

Here's a secret, let it lie;
The form is clear enough,
Betrayed by somber hollows
Light cannot reach.
Place your hand here; your foot
Finds purchase there.

A pass may be found
Through every divide.
No stratagem succeeds against
Resolute tenderness,
The endgame played by those who
Know there is no end.

Copyright 2003 Lisa Wilcox

Long Tom staggered in from ze radio shack and tried to focus on the gold lettering, "Who's Wilcox?"

"Who the fuck cares?" said This Be, sippin' some more. She tossed a brush at Foo, who woke, stretched, and wandered over to ze bar.

"Can ye taste `im?" asked Foo.

"Not yet," said Ed. "Too soon."

"What ye gonna do when the rum runs out?" asked Long Tom.

"Fill `im up again!" said Ed.

He fetched the crystal jar down from ze back bar shelf where This be had almost dripped paint on it. He turned it aroun' until ze eye was focused on ze barrel. He gently nudged the tommydawgs over onto a blanket near ze rail so ze eye could see `em too.

Then Ed slid silver cups down the bar toward Long Tom and RedFoo.

Cap'ns Booty and Proto came in from ze bow and quickly found silver cups in front o' them, too.

"Have some," Ed rasped.

T'was not a request.

------------------- ^ --------------------

*We lost Tommy at Valentine's. He was our soul, and a pyrate. The funniest man, the deepest. Cold blow the winds of Mars.

TRUTH ABOUT THE LIFEBOAT

A parable about the ubiquitous "Life Boat" scenario every philosopher scribbles in his first manuscript:

The normal inhabitants of the lifeboat are a diversity of humans, ... and a dog.

As the water runs out, and the food is gone, the castaways begin to make survival decisions based upon the philosopher's vision of correct behavior. Some heavy occupants must go overboard, inadequate supplies must be rationed. How these problems are solved illustrates the utility of the ethics recommended by each philosopher's system.

Obviously the dog is eaten first, every philosopher agrees upon that. Then either the old person is eaten or tossed overboard, or the mentally deficient human, then the less 'valuable' person, etc. etc. until a few souls are left to arrive safely ashore.

But we now have a broader understanding of the universe in which these choices occur; and that while nearly all philosophers posit that there are no rules from the natural world that place restrictions on the *ethical* behavior of the inhabitants of the lifeboat, this is indeed not the case in reality.

As the thirsty survivors wash ashore in the nearly empty lifeboat, the beautiful goddess Mother Nature is there to greet them with open arms, celebrating their successful triumph over the ordeal at sea.

She has but one question, "Where's the dog?"

Unable to give a satisfactory answer, the lifeboat's remaining occupants are tossed back into the sea to drown in Mother Nature's cruel surf ....