Saturday, June 18, 2005

Exeunt Adjuster

Well, Fakiegrinders, as the Endtime Adjuster I have certain duties that might take me beyond the boundries of the north end of Steeltown, rich and fascinating territory as it is. The Rapture Index is up one point, and there are apocalyptic rumours for me to investigate, Upanachron artifacts to track down, and latent mutant tendencies to midwife in newly awakening starchilds across the nation. I can't sit around waiting for Flatlander to return indefinitely. And as much as I enjoy blogging here on Fakiegrind, comments are down .75% since I took over as site administrator. Through their echoing silence the tribe has spoken, so the Endtime Adjuster will take his revelations elsewhere.

I will leave you with a piece of writing I found lodged behind some of Flatlander's other papers, in a manilla folder marked on its identification tab by the words "Pure Dope". The folder was empty, save for one sheet of paper, and I suspect that Flatlander has hidden the rest of the contents of the dossier, or else taken it with him, to prevent sucker MCs from "biting his rhymes":


No Land is an I-Man
by Flatlander


You wanna stay calm if you live in a maelstrom
before you succeed you always must fail some
I accept cheques but require a deposit
when hired to remove poltergeists from your closet
holy ghost hunter, apostate monk
a failure at Zen, I pretend when I'm drunk
beautiful mutant, omniscient student
baptized twice cuz it pays to be prudent

This internal pep-talk keeps me distracted
from the fatal disease it seems I've contracted
called life --closet gnostic, poison in my veins
counterfeit heretic, ricochet brain
temporary tattoo blotting out sky
blue thunder echoing, not afraid to die
but fighting to live a hundred thousand times
the peace that passeth all understanding sounds fine
movement and repose, rapping in plain cloths
do not go gentle into that good night though
reading the fine print etched in my palm:
inwardly turbulent, outwardly calm

I cling to my ego, just like a life raft
trying to get it all down in the first draft
heaven-bent heathen, manifold faces
looking for freedom in all the wrong places
wandering wastelands just for the kick of it
washed up on beach strands, thin in the thick of it
collapsed on myself just like a black hole
portal to unexplored worlds when the bell tolls
constructing dwellings just like a spider
using whatever I find like a writer
sometimes entangled, mangled and scar-spangled
stacked like a tesseract with intricate angles


Take it easy, Flatlander. I hope you make it back from your adventures with new wisdom and insight--or, failing that, with new and amusing forms of foolishness. And to all Fakiegrinders out there, remember to keep it rolling, keep it human, and keep it old!

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