by Alexander Michael Marasca Ziperovich
“Cemeteries…” The scant sun rang glass bells upon the tombs, the bigger tombs, the domes and all the decaying white angels. It was hot in the cemetery in autumn, once again. There is no tragic comedy greater than the furnace of sun heating a single blood stream on October in a graveyard.
“But I’m not in a grave. I’m on ‘planet earth’. Why?”
Along the Kinshasa highway in Zaire in 1976’, the same truck stops from where HIV/AIDS originated, that is where they found it, this unholy fever from the bleeding jungle. CIA, USAMRIID, KGB, FSS, even the PLA; it became a household name. The deal of all devils: Russia and America’s 2012 pact against the Chinese. It began in North Africa with the Gates Foundation’s polio vaccination campaign, which inflicted long, coursing paralysis and ultimate freedom from life for the recipient in the form of a single nosebleed. They all marched back to the jungle for the witch doctor’s bushmeat to live.
Going back to the source was the only sensible thing to do in the interests of National Security they said. Congressionally delicate declination; Suppression via the media; Human complacency.
It was just too far above their pay grade.
Pluralism favors the brave and rarely the incompetent.
EXECUTIVE ORDER MAO-91 was declared. Signatures were scrawled in a darkened anteroom by three men, one Chinese-American, one Russian-American, and one President of the United States of America.
It’s now 2019 and the entire continent has been devoured, eaten alive; ACTION-ORDER-1918 has been activated but the pilots won’t fly the choppers, the soldiers can’t stand post and nothing is working and everything is dying.
EO: PROCEED PROCESS DEEP-SEED-SLEEP-89
The White House that was airlifted years previous to a remote province outside Shanghai in the form of a Buddhist temple dwelling was burned to cinders after the chief-of-staff and all his AIDS were doused with Cherosene and Kerosene and spit on by the counter-counter-revolutionary infectious squads.
They died shortly thereafter, hemorrhaging Khmer Rouge propaganda from the spleens that erupted from their facial orifices.
EO: AUTOMORPHEUS SECTION 3 is initiated.
The President was orbiting the earth with two or three AIDS until a sizable splotch of Pluto cracked the hull. They breathed in the gaseous ship for six years and six months, staggeringly conscious. It seems Pluto has intentions beyond not being a planet.
And that is all.
“Why isn’t really the right question and I already know how, mostly. I think the real question is, is? Why is? What is?” He ruffles pebbles with his broken rag boots, heels like dry planks, splinters in his feet with every single step.
He kicks a rock and breaks his little toe.
The last childbirth on earth, in Monrovia, in the heart of the plague, the child was brought forth. The mother died instantaneously, convulsing while bleeding from her nipples.
The child never saw a picture in or outside of Liberia or anywhere for that matter. No description. No one knows how he exited the womb because there is no one.
He delivered himself.
And he was alone.
And that is all.
Lying prostrate on a thick slab of marble stone he glares up at the sun.
The sun stares back harder. He stares back harder. Ardor. Heroism. Heroin.
He had blinded himself like this before when he should have been in kindergarten so this was no new silly ploy; he had satiated himself by becoming the enemy, nemesis and guardian of the light of the sun, begging it to explode in his nocturnal days without affect.
The light warms his face. He turns away disgusted. “Assembly line garbage bulb.”
A floating, dancing, singing blur. His mother’s face again. “Assembly line garbage whore.”
A caught, designed, mutated beyond control virus manifested. “Assembly line garbage teardrop.”
He propels himself so that he falls face first into the soft dirt. He inhales the soil. It never works despite the centuries of deadly peptides, pesticides, protein-molecularly changed rental signs.
He is immortal until his natural death.
His maternal grandmother died at 103 years of age, chain smoking through the oxygen mask until finally ripping herself out of the ventilator so as to continue swigging cheap brandy. She died a few years later.
“No excitement here.” He breaks his other foot and his shoe unfastens itself and runs off of him into a tombstone like a petrified rodent. He kicks off the other boot and raises his hand to the sun letting it soar into the sky but it only lands some three or four feet from his feet, up and down, like those carnival rides designed for the insane.
He climbs a cliff.
He climbs another cliff.
He summits Kilimanjaro and Everest again and asks the question that has plagued him for all of his sixty-six years: What is?
In a frothy tornado-like motion he screams at the valleys and canyons and plains below and listens for one sound, an insect a bird a snake a Chihuahua but there isn’t the faintest echo. He bites his tongue, sits down and bleeds onto a carcass. He imagines an ocean suspended at this altitude. Even here the graves continue to flower and bloom.
The ocean scarlet with the blood of the last infant-boy-pubescent-man.
He drinks deeply of his mind and vomits all of it out onto the snow and the sand.
Is the question is? The question is.
The answer is:
This place was virulent with hatred far before Ebola or HIV or Influenza.
This place was virulent with love far before vaccines, cocktails, or morphine.
There is no explanation because God refuses us.
There is no explanation because Satan loves us.
Why there is nothing and everything?
Why there is everything and nothing?
It just isn’t what you wanted.
It is what it is.
And is it?
And that is all that is and all that ever will be.