Copyright 2003 M.D. Ward. All Rights Reserved.

 

Hoverman

 

By M.D. Ward

   

  

 

By M.D. Ward

 

Hoverman went to see the witch doctor. He opened his mouth and out

popped his whole crazy life, skin bones, and soul. From his strange

cranium flew the words that made up his life. Fire, fear, rage and

shame. Hoverman let loose a torrent of truth and another witch bit the

dust. He didn't see her burning. Hoverman was not to be tolerated. He

was out of control. He would have to find his own way out. Breathe slow

and let the seconds slip away. There are too many in the boat.

Hoverman dreamed of sunshine and the sea and lived a life of perpetual

shade and hopelessness. He didn't believe in anything but beauty....and

even that had it's price. Well, one thing was learned, a witch doctor

without balls, is just another witch.

* * *

It was midnight and the wind blew a chilly tune through the dying trees of

November. Hoverman gathered his supplies and settled down for the long

cold purgatory of winter. He didn't need much. A little food, a little

drink, his cat, a few friends, and a whole lot of smoke. Hoverman loved

to smoke. It made him levitate. It made him Light. He was born in

flame. When asked, " Why do you love the smoke so much?" he would

always say, " It's not the Smoke....It's the FIRE!!!" Everyone knew the

Man was Nuts. Everyone but Hoverman. To him it looked like the rest of

the world had missed the boat. They were all too busy to be trusted.

Hoverman took a stand against the hurley burley ambition of a willy

nilly world and pulled the covers over his eyes and clicked on the

magic lamp in his cranium as the snowflakes fell in Baghdad and a

carpet of red petals floats a madman with a grin, and a cat, a friend or

two, a sack full of boo as the blue breath of winter blew.

* * *

It was raining silver dollars and the fat moon smiled a crooked grin on

all the woebegotten souls wandering in wonderland looking for the night

to burst apart like an old pinyata and flood the sky with stars.

Hoverman was a born loser. The deck was stacked with knaves and jokers

long before he was born. Like so many of the human race his life's light

barely fickered. He had come to believe that the bad luck was his fate.

And so it was. Hoverman lived a nocturnal existence. He hardly saw the

sun. He lived a life of dreams and waited for death. There was nothing

else to do. He was here for no reason. As real as you. Stuck in a

clock of flesh and bones with no way out and no reason why. His heart

was too old to break. After a while his life became one solid night.

One day Hoverman decided that Today would be the Day. He would face

the Sun. He placed one foot on the floor and reached for the chain to the

overhead light....The globe around the bulb slipped off and exploded

against his skull into a thousand glass splinters. He slowly returned

his foot back into bed and that was the end of that. Some people were

born to sleep. Hoverman was one.

* * *

Hoverman woke and reached for his smoke and rolled out of bed to begin

the day. It was three o clock in the pm and he felt like he was late again.

Hoverman was never on time. At least no one else's time. He just

couldn't seem to make it in the jungle and jumble of seconds. Time was

all there was....and it was running out. Nobody seemed to notice but

Hoverman...and he was Always Late. He was late no matter what time it

was. He just didn't want to be on time for something that would steal

his life. Anything or anyone could do that. It was easy. Hoverman was

a very bright bulb in some ways, very bright. He thought he had it all

figured out. You're born in darkness you live in fear you die in darkness.

In the meantime you wait.

* * *


The sun came up and Hoverman went down.  He had waited all night with a
rosy moon wrapped in a black velvet sky and now it was time to sleep.
The lazy sun sneaked into his soul like a thief and stole his energy.
He knew he would be missing something today....like a life.  But the sun
made him yawn and the first birds of spring outside his window chirped
without mercy.  Hoverman filled a final pipe and puffed himself into a
cloud.  Soon he was floating over his bed and dreaming of a world where
he mattered.  A world where he was the Last word.  There would be no
insanity here.  No war, no waste, no hate,no hunger.  Why?  Because it
Was Possible!! Because it was the Right Move...the Only Move to make.
So Hoverman floated and dreamed in the cool darkness of his room and the
world became perfect.  Outside in the sun the rats begin to run and
bombs rain on Baghdad. M.

East of Eden west of heaven in the bedlam known as
Brooklyn sits a Sufi smoking holy rope dreaming he was Pope. And in his
dream the Angels drag him from his bed and put a Triple Crown upon his dome radiant with diamonds and multi-precious stones. Next they whisk him to Rome and plant him on a Holy Throne.  At Last!!!  Now the world can
Rejoice!!!  Daddy's Home.  There have been Thieves in the Temple for Two
Thousand Years. Two Thousand Years of layered wealth hoarded by the
Pirates of the Cross now in the hands of a bedbug from Brooklyn.  He is now a God.  He sells it all.  Everything.  From the Sistine Chapel to the
Bones of the Saints. All works of art all tax exempt lands and holdings
dating back to the time of the Lord must be sold and given to the poor.
THIS IS the Will of GOD!!! And with this wealth I will Feed the Hungry
and clothe the naked. The Lame will Dance and the Blind will See
Because HE Promised ME. Now is the Tyme of Miracles.  Now is the Only
Tyme. M.

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