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      "body": "Many thanks, for reading. I agree, he was a rare bird, & illuminating regarding darker aspects of humanity.\n\nSpeaking of which, you might enjoy my earlier piece on Kafka (another poet of anxiety and dread).",
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      "body": "Many thanks, for reading. I agree, he was a rare bird, & illuminating regarding darker aspects of humanity.",
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      "body": "I enjoyed this a lot. Kierkegaard  was one of a kind. I especially like his thoughts on anxiety and dread.",
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      "body": "<center><h1>BEHEAD</h1> by @fezziwig</center>\n\n\n\n<center>![blood_tree.jpg](https://steemitimages.com/DQmP616YCZ3JtFVaZj7pjvQMVVTNsJgqXPyk7LTQs3jABnn/blood_tree.jpg)</center>\n\n“A man is here, and I am a man, and a man is here,” he said underneath the birch tree on the creek bank. He took a green bottle and threw it far out. He threw ten rocks at it before it got away to the rapids.\n\n“Goddamn you, Enney,” he said, thinking of the roundness of her breasts. They were like droplets, so round and full, as they were about to fall and needed catching.\n\nAlthough it was exceptionally hot, Lyn sat down to a fire he  started on the bank with branches and dried mosses and bark. He brought with him a cast iron skillet – that was heating over the flames – and a brown egg, fresh from the barn. He stuck his face close to the skillet and listened to the sweat hiss as it fell from his forehead into it.\n\nThe egg was still in his shirt pocket and he cracked it on a rock and watched it turn white when he dropped it into the pan. When a side was done he turned it with a piece of birch bark trying not to break the yolk. Done enough, he ate it runny off the bark and smelled the lusty smell of the creek and the smell was green like the mosses and algae in it.\n\n“Whatever it is, I will understand it,” he said when he stood. He went to the river, knelt and threw water over his face. He could never keep from laughing when he washed his face. He repeated what he had said and slapped the water from his forehead, touched it in his hair. The humidity was high. It had started building a couple days ago.\n\nA shotgun leaned against the birch. A variety of bottles were beside it too. He picked up a clear one and looked out at the creek and thought, I will either bust this bottle or annihilate myself. Dirt was down in the bottle and he rattled it. I will bust this bottle or I will hang myself or Enney will die.\n\nHe threw the bottle out. He missed it three times in the still part of the creek. “Fucking goddamn,” he said as it neared the rapids. Darkness was there in the rapids. His stomach was in an agony and he ran back, grabbed the skillet and threw it and it made a big splash behind the bottle. The name Enney caught in his mind. Enney, Enney, et cetera. He took up a rock, a nice red one, kissed it, and threw it. There was a bursting, gagging, a nice solid bust like the shattering sound of a spooked quail.\n\n<center>![jesus.jpg](https://steemitimages.com/DQmaaEVthhgu2Axx4mVHirFA3NEBQ61HVK8LkTEcR48sXzz/jesus.jpg)</center>\n\nLyn’s stomach pitched and hurt and he ran down beside the water and pulled his pants down. It was just in time. Shit poured from him so hard that he couldn’t take a breath. He got one breath in before the shit poured again. Tears came out his eyes but he felt better when he washed himself in the creek water but was dizzy when he stood back up. Staggering over, he placed his boot into the fire and wanted to see it melt but it never would.\n\nHe was frightened throughout by Enney. He couldn’t speak to her except to say hi. He could smile at her but never look her in the eye while doing it. His intentions were closed off and hidden, yet he was enraged that she didn’t notice his love. When he saw her he would turn and walk away in another direction.\n\nAt the age of 14 he began to ignore her and everyone else. Wanting no one around, he’d run to his spot down under the birch tree and while away time with imagination, ecstasy, and sadness.\n\nHe would remember how she would talk to Red Davis at school and how the jealousy and mad frustration and rage would splash around in his belly.\n\n“Can I borrow a marker?” Red would ask him.\n\n“I forgot them at home,” Lyn said.\n\nHe watched Red go to his friends and whisper, all them looking and whispering about him being the craziest sonofabitch ever born. His heart would jump when Enney would enter the chattery group and then look over at him as if he were a wild animal.\n\nLyn would go back to his drawing with the markers. There were near fifty of them on top of his desk. Every color. He drew a hawk on the top of a radio tower as he thought, You goofy redheaded motherfucker.\n\nIn the winter time he would go down under the birch and kneel down and say, “Oh, fuck you,” to the freezing wind. He’d stay until his fingers and feet turned numb, then painful, the pain being something physical and alive. He laughed at the frozen edges of the creek because it reminded him of the blood in his toes.\n\nHe’d think of Enney and how she’d become curved in such a lovely feminine way. Her eyes stayed the same as Enney before but this change of look, this change of feeling, he could not adjust to. A love for her came against him so hard that he stepped aside and let the world have her.\n\nHe couldn’t take her look anymore. He’d go down to the birch and wait for his body to hurt from the cold and then wait longer and longer, becoming so thoroughly cold that he could barely breathe.\n\n \n<center>![christ.jpg](https://steemitimages.com/DQmNXoFw4e6X4r2mmpM1RU2VveVWCy58LUCMDFPY1Z5MNek/christ.jpg)</center>\n \n\nLyn dealt in repetitions and words like prayers got inside him. When he went to bed at night he said the names of all the people and dogs and trees that he loved before he tried to sleep. He could not go to sleep without it.\n\nHe paced up the stone shore and back down. “Christ.” Lyn looked up at the white of the birch tree and suddenly hated it, wanted it cut down. “I will have it.” He walked up to the tree. “I will have it, you wild crazy sonofabitch, I will!” He took the tree into his hands and put his forehead against it. “My fucking birthright.” He scraped his forehead against the tree and rubbed his unshaven face on it. “Birthright.” He repeated this new word. It had entered his mind and would not leave. It mixed with the continuous sound of the bursting bottle. He struck his head against the white bark, dragged it down and pulled himself back. He saw the bright red of his blood smeared there on all that white. He went and placed his hand on the trunk beside the blood just as he was gently touching someone’s face. He stared at the contrast.\n\n“That is right,” he said. “That is right,” he said a little louder. It scared him how he said it and it made him antsy and restless. A filament glowed white in his brain. He patted the tree like he had done to his grandpa’s dead shoulder and walked out of the creekbank, touching his forehead and fascinated with the red on his fingertips.\n\nDown a mile or so the shotgun was leaned against a post. Lyn jumped up on a rail of a wooden fence and stood high like a rooster he once saw. Over the far trees he saw the sky darkening. It made him happy in a way. Something may be happening soon.\n\nHe prayed like a boy as he walked the rail, trying to see over the trees to see if the darkening thing had a heart to it and then looked down at the rail for balance. He thought something heard him while he talked and walked down the rail. It listened. Something knew him.\n\nIt was getting darker two fists lengths over the trees now and spreading. He even felt some wind and it was cooler. And then he heard thunder, just a bit of it, and coolness of nerve set through his bladder and testicles. An image came to him. A horrifying one. It was of Enney naked and dangling from an apple tree by her neck. He looked down and saw he was erect.\n\n<center>![father.jpg](https://steemitimages.com/DQmQP8i36JWvCbADvzzGNEcytS1hy986K7baiRXCm5y5Lvm/father.jpg)</center>\n\nIt was much different long ago when they were two kids. Enney was just a friend. They would gather toads, frogs, snakes, rocks. When October came around they would burn leaves, sticks, paper in Enney’s coffee can that she had buried in the ground. It was their burning place and they’d sit there on the ground near the can and talk of ghosts, wild dogs, Indians, murderers, and watch the nighthawks when night began coming around.\n\nWhen the sky darkened long ago in the middle of a summer day Enney would say nothing and run to her house. The faraway sound of thunder, flash of lightning. Lyn would stay out and face it. “Jesus, father, strength and into me,” he’d chant when it stepped closer, blowing in, leaves flipping over backwards, light streaking the sky like a veined heart. He would hear its beat, love its intensity – like a magic – and want it to stay inside him, live in him. When he thought of this it made him want Enney around. He missed her. He thought of her under her roof and tried to let that image comfort him. He thought of blankets.\n\nWhen the west lightened up and the storm diminished, he thought of suicide and picked up the gun. He contemplated turning it all off. The wire was still hot in his head.\n\nThen he would remember her waving at him. He remembered climbing into the hayloft and laying there invisible with thoughts raging alongside the pure heat, dry hay and straw. He’d light a cigarette there and envision a great fire, the barn turning to black and ash. Flicking his cigarette, his face flared and tightened with fury as he watched the red ash fall next to the dry hay.\n\nGoddamn her.\n\nThey were not kids anymore. They couldn’t just be around each other. They had more to do.\n\n \n\n<center>![gun_storm.jpg](https://steemitimages.com/DQmQtWummPaXqNi26c5Zu6eeX4rNTY3ayGX54nhVck2zebJ/gun_storm.jpg)</center>\n\n \n\nBy the time he had reached the dirt road towards home the day had near gave in. The moon had ripened in the eastern sky and was flush in a hazy yellow. The daylight persisted but was weak.\n\nHe reached down and took a fox-tail from the ground and squeezed it between his two front teeth. The way he jabbed in in between made the gums sore and he loved it.\n\nHe was watching the moon, a gray cloud under it, when a small blackness flew by. A bat. He laughed, lay the gun in some wet dew grass, and picked up some stones from the road and made high-pitched sounds with his lips, throwing a stone and seeing the black erratic come to it. Sucking squeaks, he threw another and the black erratic came down to it. He smiled as some ghost of his great great great great grandfathers came and grabbed him and picked him up and shook him, threw him up in the air like a child.\n\nHe threw another rock. The black erratic came down.\n\nThe humidity was there pressing around him. There was no end to sweat. No pity from nature.\n\nHe threw rocks and the bats would sometimes catch them when they swarmed around and make clicking noises.\n\nIt could be a dream but he remembered years ago him and Enney laying in the middle of a field and the prairie birds attacking whenever they raised up. They must have had babies or eggs somewhere around. It may be just a dream. But he felt good when she was laying beside him and would laugh at the birds and turn her head smiling. It was spring but not all of the plants had greened. Mostly, they were brown. Enney was colorful.\n\nThe moon raised and turned more blue. Ripe and full. The way it started putting blue over everything was like painting with cigarette smoke in the eyes or digging the teeth into the lip or soft spring feet into the gravel.\n\nHe saw something flash. The light came from the east. He saw it out the side of his eye but nothing more came. He reached for some gravel to play with the bats and there was thunder. Wind picked up. Trees blew far away and then the wind would hit him. He smelled Christ or some Black God in that wind. No one could convince him otherwise.\n\nWhen he looked at the coming storm he thought, “Jesus, Christ, father, strength and come,” again and again until it wasn’t thought at all. He would think of wind and believe it came to him when called, like a puppy or a black bull to a fence.\n\nAnother lightning and another lightning. Big sounds that would make you fall to the ground to comfort a dying shrew that a cat had bitten. He didn’t care if it was big. He wanted the big to come no matter how loud it would growl and be done with so he could lay with his head back and think of screwing atheists.\n\n<center>![strength.jpg](https://steemitimages.com/DQmTc2jYpknSkeiF6wfppJYyeSe9W9W7m1R9F3hg54ErT84/strength.jpg)</center>\n\nThe thunder was like a gunshot. It began to pour. He remembered being a child and the lightning hitting close and feeling the static on his face and hair. He wanted to be shot by it. He laughed. He wanted to be gunned down by the Negro heavens. He laughed. He wanted an escape from the heat, the pressing. Thoughts pressed. The shape of her and the different shape of her laugh and his different shape. The thought of cumming blood from that animal that hardened his piss organ.\n\nHe raised the gun up like an antenna. “Stop it,” he said. The lightning struck everywhere but at him. He thought, You sonofabitch, come on now. I’m here. Kick me. Something or other.\n\nThere was a pouring around him but he couldn’t pour anything. He walked back to the barn, raising the gun here and there on the way so the lightning could see it.\n\nInside the barn, before he walked to check on the chickens, he stopped and looked at the storm. It was getting bigger all the time. The tin roof was getting hammered with rain. It felt good some to know nature could match his ferocity. Good to know it wasn’t some highbrow that had reached enlightenment.\n\nHe walked in pitch dark to the back of the barn where the chickens were kept behind a door. He leaned the shotgun up against a woodpile, took a breath like a dog and opened the door. He stepped inside.\n\n“Shut the door. It will get out. Well, shut the door!”\n\nEnney was there in a white dress with a golden light on her from a hung lantern. She held a hatchet in her hand and stood there watching him. With a bite of her lip she ran into the crowd of chickens and stepped back with a great white hen in her right hand, flapping its heavy wings and raising dust.\n\nShe brought it back under the light of the lantern, laid it on the dirt floor and it seemed to be calmed by her. Enney stepped on its legs, pulled its head so that its neck was elongated.\n\nShe looked up at Lyn, still biting her lip.\n\n“I love you,” she said grabbing the hatchet.\n\nShe lopped off the hen’s head.\n\nThe hen ran off and Enney ran over to Lyn and pulled the white dress over her head. He saw the silver cross on her neck, against her white skin as she took his right hand and put it between her legs. The white beheaded hen ran into the crowd of chickens and scattered them.\n\nAll timidity rushed away when he felt that wetness and he cared as little as a bear when its claws touched honey. The stings came upon him and he ignored them. She touched his arm and the gentleness of it enraged him. He pulled down his pants and her hand took his cock and stroked it.\n\nThe beheaded hen fell. “Fuck!” he said and the white beheaded hen ran again. The other chickens ran frightened and clucked. He picked Enney up onto a rail and put it into her slowly and then roughly. “Jesus!” she said. “O Jesus Christ!” The silver cross swung from her neck and between her breasts.\n\n<center>![come.jpg](https://steemitimages.com/DQmQ8qEk4YHg7iXRudSQpz3pPm8eWbdChFkVznXAhkhne1X/come.jpg)</center>\n\nHe delved into her. “Goddamn! Goddamn it, fuck me!” she said and he shot into her, and collapsed onto her, pulling her close to him. He tried to catch his breath, closed his eyes, testicles aching from the orgasm, and he looked over her shoulder and saw the white beheaded hen very still on the hard dirt floor.\n\nHe followed the cadence of the live chicken’s clucks and his breathing slowed. Sweat dried. Few drops hit the tin roof.\n\nHe picked her dress from the dirt and whipped it like a rug. She put it on again and took the white hen by the legs and went out with him. The light pulsed in the distance but there was no more discernible vein to it.\n\n“Why do you have a gun?” she said.\n\n“A dead old man told me to steal it back for him in a dream I had last night.”\n\n“Let me see it.”\n\nHe handed her the gun and she aimed it at the weathervane cock. She aimed it at the rain barrel. She aimed it at the moon and pulled the trigger. The thunder echoed across the whole goddamn countryside. He became frightened and even more so when his old dad came out on the front porch in his pajamas. He carried a rifle.\n\nEnney saw him and fell to the ground with laughter. She looked over at the white beheaded hen laying there. “Run goddamn it! Get up and goddamn run!” she said and laughed like a little girl, the dew on the back of her neck.",
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