Hoodooed

The man is a vortex. He is encapsulated and protected from the chaos that swirls dangerously close. Perilously close. Dizzy from the onslaught of sight and sound he’s neither withered nor collapsed, but an island in the maelstrom. He’s patient. Sits slackjawed. Wanders aimlessly in maddening circles. He sleeps with one eye open. Food nor drink satisfies but a lethal hunger drives him. Libido on overdrive but without an outlet; a masturbating monkey on speed, he recounts and fantasizes days of yore. A yearning for more drives him to the toe-gripping brink. Stifled, unable to touch it, he knows it, he’s tasted it, therefore all progress depends upon the curious, unreasonable man, the man who wrestles with demons and gives not an inch, undeterred but bewildered, frothing, jabbering, stamping burdened feet for all to hear and take note, dust a perpetual cloud that mystifies and cloaks.
Due south north east and west, from every perimeter, all four dirt roads leading in every direction were flooded, rising with chocolate water and the two-story tin house sat on a grassy knoll offering safety and comfort. The man thankful. Composed. The hand-made bed was soft and inviting, sturdy, carved to a pitch, but the new clothes didn’t make the man, However, he felt relieved to be able to afford them, at the least, not to mention the fabrics were pleasing to the eye, soft to the touch, and even though the clothes fit perfectly he just didn’t feel the need in his heart to purchase them, remembering words of resolve, knowing in his heart that needs were meager, and procuring anything else just for the sake of being able seemed gluttonous, unnecessary, gaudy, tawdry. Stay focused, he told himself.
Freedom came with a suddenness, affording him opportunity to unleash anger and frustration, showing the world that despite his wrinkled ass dragging the hard packed earth he was far from done and he knew it ...so did others, even though they stood silent. The man growled and fingers contorted and sweat dripped from underneath fingernails. Hair grew angry but he was oblivious, the brown wool suit immaculately tailored, and yet he screeched, he wailed, crosseyed in the spotlight. All the while his audience grew nervous, uncomfortable, squirming in their seats, their fingers a ball of mating serpents, writhing and squeezing until bare knuckles cracked and meat caked joints creaked and moaned a sad song, loud enough for the girl buying popcorn at the concession stand to take notice where she began to cry uncontrollably, sobbing and drooling, wondering when wicked death would take her breath from her like a cat stealing milk, then pick her up by her armpits and shake her like a rag doll; shake her and shake her and shake her until every bone pulverized to green jelly, her once luscious skin torn paper.
The craggy, ancient man spilt his guts and tears flowed and smiles surrounding him exploded into light. He’d lived long. He’d lived hard. Benevolence guided his every move. A ragged, rawboned glory moved every muscle in his body, his mind a conduit to amazing grace. The invisible man who craved and desired was silent, but he partook. He absorbed. Inside he cried. He was joy.
The shy pained man disappeared before every eye in the house. His thoughts lingered and penetrated, yet he was gone. The old whiskered man grew confused but he learned. He adapted.
Then there was exquisite pasta and age old bread to decorate the house. Vivid magpie conversation and a cliff leapt from. Massive grins, peace and calm, drug under by a rip tide and deposited amongst the salmon and sea foam coral, flowing at light speed in the volcanic current. When was there dark, and how? How could it?
Screaming raging hate intervenes but the man stiff-arms it. A darkness one almost can’t comprehend, yet this red headed fool embraces it. The man cannot. So he doesn’t. He prays for her soul, but he knows it useless.
Palmetto trees and chicken skin puckered with raindrops. Exteriors belying interiors. Smoked meat and butcher paper that suspended the fragile weight and absorbed the juice. Gimme more. Gimme more. Gimme more flat land and thunderclouds. The sun poked its head through the clouds and the man’s skin bled. He was happy. He gorged. Freedom reigned once again. The man submersed, alive. The clouds beneath him, the stars his arms, his legs, his feet, his toes. A constellation oozed from his pores. Beyond. Well. As it should.
New voices entered the man’s sphere. He couldn’t believe his ears. Beats seduced him, sour mash seeped into his bloodstream, and melodies enraptured the air he breathed and lifted him higher, higher, higher. James Brown and his Fabulous Flames led the charge. Whiskey flowed like soda. A groove struck. Cackles and respect intertwined. A magic carpet ride. Shoulder blades and eyes that hung over her mouth. Love indominate.
A determined grace overrode. Faith at its peak.
How could a man not be invigorated by the input? Look at the big picture.
He did.