-the historical name for a mountainous strip of land in modern-day Jordan
-the historical name for an ancient kingdom located in modern-day Jordan
-the first son of Lot (biblical Book of Genesis) and patriarch of the kingdom of Moab
-an acronym for: Mother Of All Bombs (MOAB; a large yield thermobaric bomb)
-an acronym for: monoclonal antibodies (moAb; a type of laboratory-produced antibody with a number of promising therapeutic uses, including the treatment of Alzheimer’s disease and cancer)
-a computer security strategy (MoAB; Month of Apple Bugs)
-a Tiberian Hebrew word (Môʼāḇ) meaning “seed of father”
-a city in Utah
This blog post relates only to the last item.
When black dreams lead to blackened day, the feeling is one of betrayal:
of the self, by the self.
Unfaithful sensibilities, disloyal reality, are not tolerated here, in the Kingdom of Conniving Fleas. Don’t make me make an example of myself. 1,327 consecutive life sentences. No possibility of Nirvana.
Only conjugal visits with a Sacred Cow.
Betrayed by night, I rue the day. Cut off yesterday to spite tomorrow.
Fear (if sleep is not safe, where might refuge ever be found?) begets uncertainty;
uncertainty reveals complexity.
The complex tears man asunder.
What is simple heals him.
Even if the balm be unctuous.
No, I am not myself today.
Or perhaps I am too much myself.
I spent hours alone in an underground room, trying to prove to myself that I don’t exist, that I’m not
the Invisible Man.
Saved by the bell. Only strangers drop-in anymore.
They tell me to sign on the dotted line and I know
I was bought off long ago.
Or it could be an evangelist, asking me if I’ve read the Bible.
Some say the Good Book is just astrology. Just the other day a man saw Jesus in a pile of windshield bird shit.
He always looks handsome in pictures.
Nowadays he’d be just another hipster,
working at a sushi restaurant
writing a bad memoir.
Poor neighborhoods, like this one, tend to have a high concentration of churches. On Sundays I like to take a long walk. Every few blocks there’s a church from which pours snippets of voices, organ music, clapping hands, stomping feet. I’ve never been a churchgoer, but I imagine what would happen if I opened a door mid-service and settled into a pew in the back. I think of what it would be like to lose myself completely in the preacher’s voice, the crowd’s movements, the high ceilings, the stained glass. To be a believer, just for an hour. I will slip out the door quickly when the service is over and walk home wrapped in a strange calm, in spite of the reinstatement of my disbelief.
Yes, I prepare to say to the True Believer at the door, I have heard the words of Christ.
No, I do not follow them.
But please talk of them…speak friend!
I will become lost in the roll of your voice,
you purring cat!
Your certainty gives me hope that someday
I may too be sure of something.
There is no man with a bible
wielded like a shotgun
at my door.
A slightly-less-than-middle-aged Mexican man stands there.
Hey man. I’m lukeing for Pancho man. A leetle guy. He says heez leeving at this address man.
Pancho doesn’t live here amigo.
Ok man. Thanks man. I’ll check the other houses.
Wait, amigo, I say.
Do you have a minute?
I’d like to talk to you about the message of
Jesus Christ, our lord and savior.
I’d nearly forgotten the world was going to end. If not for Facebook, it probably would have slipped my mind altogether. I would have bungled through another morning of coffee and copywriting, completely unaware of the devastation that was to grip the Earth in the coming hours. Only a jerk spends his final day of existence writing about garage renovation costs and faulty Johnson & Johnson metal-on-metal hips.
But while I may skip work, I still need coffee. I reach for the Tupperware container full of Dazbog KBG Blend in the cupboard. Not even enough for a full cup. One of my ski condo mates has a container of Folgers in the refrigerator. I’d just assume the world end right now if I’m going to be drinking goddamned horse-piss Folgers. Read the rest of this entry »
Yesterday, I went for a walk in City Park for the first time since 2006. The place is overrun with Canada Geese, which have turned the biggest park in Denver more or less into an unmitigated honking and shitting fest.
When I lived here six years ago, I found the situation to be much the same, and summarized my feelings on the matter in a letter to the editor that got picked up the Denver Post. I still stand behind every word.
My latest sojourn to City Park has revealed an irrefutable point: Canada Geese are foul creatures that have defiled the sanctity of one of Denver’s finest commons.
I had to walk with my eyes to the ground, in constant fear of stepping in goose droppings. Even still, by the end of my walk my boots were caked in them. In addition, the birds constant honking is noise pollution. The entire grounds were inundated with their off-beat braying, not allowing me a moment of peace. At times a great flock of them took flight, flapping, calling, and defecating. As the warm, green feces fell waywardly, honest, hard-working citizens like myself were forced to dive for cover.
A sign at the park’s civil rights memorial reads: Quiet respect, please. While obeying the request, my tacit reverence was disturbed by honking and the “plat” of droppings on the stone, which just so happened to land square on an imprint of the Liberty Bell. As if these birds weren’t causing enough problems, they’re unpatriotic to boot! Shaking my fist at the assailants I gave chase and watched them fly North, hopefully all the way back to Canada, where such acts against humanity are tolerated.
The birds must be kept from flocking in Denver’s fine green spaces. The city would be wise to address the Canada Goose in forthcoming immigration policy. Not only is it a matter of national security, but these foreign-born birds occupy and squander resources that should rightly go to American species. Stationing small numbers of ground forces at the park will help to keep the problem at bay until a permanent solution can be reached. A more cost effective fix would be to release a slew of pythons on the city to rid us of the geese. Once that is taken care of, the city can introduce a weasel- type mammal to eat the snakes. Finally, a primate will be used to take care of the weasel problem. The primates will simply die off in the winter.
I admit that I will miss chasing and/or kicking one of the boisterous birds, but it’s a small sacrifice for being able to enjoy an afternoon in the park without obnoxious honking and feces everywhere I step. If I were interested in that, I’d go to a fraternity party.
Brian J. Eckert