The Last of Us
When we were young, we were immortal. Always eager to try something new, even if it was dangerous or could kill us. We lived our lives with an unmatched vibrancy only equal to each other: fearless, carefree, and inquisitive. We had an entire life ahead of us. We were untouchable—a rat pack, born together, never leaving each other’s sides except to chase our dreams, and we always had each other’s backs except when we slept.
Heath, the most musically talented of us, shared a room with Sigmund, who should have been an engineer with his gifts of foresight and planning. Tasha, our only sister, self-appointed stylist, and inspiring chef, shared her room with Samuel, who hated his first name, and after many years of badgering us about it eventually forced us to call him S. He was the most sensitive of the pack, and the most allergy stricken. He spent most of his early summers avoiding the outside during peak pollen season, which dampened it for all of us, but with the advent of better medication, he started to venture out as we grew up. Then there was I, Touré, the one who avoided wool, hated handshakes but longed for a hug from time to time. I had my room, and kind of preferred it that way, as I needed more space than the rest of them to grow and to feel. I was deeply complicated, but more emotionally mature than the others, and when push came to shove, I easily had the thickest skin of the group. I kept all of us together throughout the good times, but especially the difficult ones. Even during the Great White Hurricane in the winter of '88 when I lost a part of myself to frostbite, it was I who kept everyone relaxed in the hospital despite the excruciating pain of losing two and a half fingers.
We grew up differently than most, and I am grateful for it. I want to say that we were lucky, yet I never did feel the asphalt of a public schoolyard, so the conclusiveness in such a statement would be simply negligent. I can say that growing up attending school from home, had many perks, most of which would have never been available with a free education from the state. We taught ourselves many days when our parents were away. Our substitute was the forest. Many of our classroom hours were spent outside on the grass, and in the leaves, among the wildest parts of life, where we learned about the trees and the insects. We learned about ourselves. The woods stirred up our imaginations into a whirlwind of bursting creativity, untamed wonder, and unmatchable confidence.
Heath enjoyed listening to the birds every morning until lunch while Tasha ate every berry in sight to ruin hers. Frequently, she left little for the rest of us to enjoy, and the majority that remained were found in the discard pile made up mostly of the poisonous ones Sigmund warned her about. When he was medicated, S, did his best to have a good time for the sake of the group and eventually grew to love the flowers. He always described his fondness for the delicate fragrances hidden deep in their pedals. His favorite, was a white gardenia because it reminded him of the fresh oranges from Florida, a place he always wanted to visit, but sadly never did. Sigmund was usually on his back observing everything above us. He called out new shapes in the clouds and confirmed the identities of Heath's birds for him when they flew over. He enjoyed making up stories with his unique "cloud characters" that took on impossible odds, covered vast distances, and searched for love in all the right places. Entertained for hours, we never forgot his imaginative stories.
I learned a little differently than the rest. My body became a vessel through which I felt everything inside and out. When the breeze whipped through my hair I was reminded of freedom, and to flow like the wind instead of against it. When a ladybug crawled across my bare feet, I became mindful of how even the tiniest things can make an impressive impact. The rough bark of the oaks that lined our driveway felt like a hardened cloak of armor with a highly important secret to protect. I imagined they hid decades of stories in their creases, and I often wondered what the trees would share, if they could speak. I compared those trees to humans, who similarly have protective layers around them hindering their ability to share their authentic selves. I wondered how the world would be if everyone were more open and honest. My favorite feeling though, was the mountain water from Beaver Creek. I always splashed it into my face whenever we passed through, even when it was its coldest. It was brimming with its trademarked healing powers, always cooling my soul to the bones. I often dreamed of jumping in a lake filled with that same water, and for some reason, I wanted to drink my way through it, while I swam fully submerged, as if I would heal from the inside out or become one with its energy. Those days, when it was simplest when we did not need to care about the dangers of the world around us, and the sun determined our bedtimes, were among the best years of our lives.
It's cliche to say, but we really did grow up fast, continuing to seek all that the world offered up to us, and before we knew it a man’s voice began announcing our names from a clipboard among the few other homeschoolers attending the Class of '77. That day, standing on the football field of the Middlebury Union High School, our black caps were flung high into the sky reaching for Sigmund clouds, and our childhood floated away just like them. It wasn't long before we each ventured out to see the world in our ways with our diplomas tightly gripped in our hands. Like most siblings, we too began spending less time together, as we each chased our separate interests into adulthood.
As usual, our over-achieving sister found her calling first. Tasha was talented in almost everything, but had a particular knack for the ability to decorate, and settled on becoming an interior designer. Though she tried, she never made it to become a top chef, like in the shows she religiously followed, but she will always go down as the top chef of the family. Heath was right behind her with his choice, which wasn't hard for him as he naturally dove headfirst into music. Though he never got famous for it, he had an amazing ear for talent and did very well for himself as a sound mixer and music producer locally. Unlike the others, Sigmund never went to school but attended the university of life in its place. After a few years traveling abroad, he settled on becoming a self-taught photographer with an eye for everything beautiful, especially a girl. He immediately fell in love with his first model, Iris, and they quickly eloped in Paris in the summer of '82. After the wedding, we lost him to her in the first couple of years of their relationship, as she was his entire focus, and had hold of his heart. Then there was S. He developed a nose for solving crimes, and after five years at Norwich University in VT, he graduated with a degree in criminology, and became a police officer immediately after. Despite his younger, more sensitive years, he quickly grew into himself as an audacious bloodhound, and just like Sigmund, but without the girl, he married the force. I took the longest path and perhaps the hardest, but eventually got around to figuring it all out after many soul-searching and somewhat questionable years. I would rather not explain the details, but the spiritual realm reached out and grabbed me one day, and I knew that I was meant to become a massage therapist with plans to later add a yoga instructor to my resume. I started as a spiritual advisor first because I wanted to touch the minds, bodies, and spirits of the whole world. It suited my life perfectly and made me whole. From those early days on we chased our careers, followed our hearts, some of us found love, but we all experienced fulfilling lives.
Like all who came before us, and all who would eventually follow behind, the years had piled on, and our clocks ticked closer to midnight in the eldest part of our lives.
Though we had always kept in touch, usually visiting a couple of times a year for holidays and birthdays, we eventually found ourselves further apart than we had ever imagined. I cannot attest to when, but somewhere along the road of life there was a day of singularity for me. I finally looked over my shoulder to examine where my footsteps had traveled and where they were heading. After a while, I concluded that we were not perpetual beings, but instead, without question we all were heading into the cosmos to each become a tiny new star. That day of reflection came just in time, and because of it, our visits happened more frequently, especially as the five of us soon started fading away. One after another, we began saying goodbye to each other, which was something that had never crossed our minds we would have to endure. Something Sigmund or even S. could not have predicted. We thought we would live forever, we thought we would die together. We never anticipated having to attend each other’s funerals, but we did.
Heath passed first. His death was sudden, but we found out months later, that he was hiding his decline from everyone, and instead had been over-compensating for years. As it is commonplace to say, I wish I had known earlier, so I could have spent more time with him before he left us. In retrospect, he never was a man who wanted special attention, especially for a disability. So, he died his way, and for that, I appreciate and love him more. The next to leave us was Sigmund. A huge surprise again, and a loss that tore the three of us apart the most. He seemed to most invincible to us, and we never truly recovered after his passing. He was such a stable leader in the group, never to complain about the appointed position he had no say in, but he was the one that we all relied upon to help guide us forward and lead the way. Without him, we had lost sight of ourselves, quickly becoming lost. It was only two years later during the peak of the flu season, when I had to bury Tasha and S., myself. It happened within the same month of December. What was once my favorite time of the year had quickly become a month of mourning and pain, and thus stayed that way for every subsequent year after that I survived without them. It seemed to rain all thirty-one days for them as if the world stopped to cry for their loss. I wept an additional thirty-one after realizing my family, my brothers, and my sister were all gone for good.
All that is left, after my siblings have vanished into the ether, is I, an empty shell of a man who is held together by a thick membrane of connective tissue, loose skin, and faint memories helping to glue everything in place. My bedsheets have me wrapped into a tightly wound death burrito with an extra layer of expired meat, soggy lettuce, and no Picante sauce inside. Each day, I long for the soft touches of the hospice nurse during her hourly rounds. It's the only touch I have left. I don't know her name, but I know she hums a special tune that makes my skin dance a little longer. It reminds me of Heath and his melodies and I find pleasure in the warmth it brings me. I have no one else to share my life with, nor stories to burden onto them in hopes they would learn a valuable lesson or never forget the life that my siblings and I had lived. I realize now that when I used to observe old people talking so much about their lives, they were reliving their favorite memories, but they also were trying to preserve them in someone's mind, so after they pass they hopefully would be remembered for just one more day.
My engine is on idle, and my exhaust fumes are creeping heavily throughout the room. I know the oxygen will eventually displace from here leaving only toxic fumes, but I would never know when it happens. So, I wait. I lay here as fearless as I once was, as we all were so long ago, and I am left only with the feelings of what my memories used to be. Without knowing what lies beyond that closed door that awaits my turning hand, I eagerly invite what will soon be the final chapter of my life, death. As if it is the final song in my concerto of life, the sold-out crowd of thousands of hairs on my skin reach up like extended arms, eagerly rising to meet the distant echoes of my siblings who sing beside me on the same stage. Their voices vibrate intensely through my body. I know they are here, and a calmness fills me. I grin with hope. The rat pack will soon be whole again. Their presence invites me onward; to leave my vessel; They soothe me as I begin the same journey they did. Similar to S.'s flowers wilting after an autumn frost; my hairs wither and flatten while my body's warmth radiates out of me. I begin to close our book of life for good, with me as the final chapter, who wrote the last words, and I place my author signature on the inside cover, for someone else to read.
Remember my kin, for they were so many things; So many experiences, and they lived with such a vibrant love for the world around us. Remember Heath for his beautiful tunes on the balcony during the summers overlooking the lake. Remember Sigmund for all of his wild quests he took his characters on, and how he was gracious enough to let us come along for the ride. Remember Tasha for she filled our hearts and our stomachs with every part of her very soul. Remember Samuel for his sensitive side, and the poems that explained it, especially when he read them to us on the days we couldn't go out because of his allergy "condition." Finally, remember me, the one who had felt the entirety of a lifetime, and barred the scars to prove it. I can only hope that I touched the lives of many, healed the hearts of a few, and inspired at least one.
I, Touré was the last of us.
©2023 Chris Sadhill
Breathing in the Sun
Purple ribbons wrapped in pink.
Icey kisses grazing cheek.
Asphalt drumming underfoot.
A whitetail alerts the bevy.
Stubborn apples softly swaying.
Blurry blanket loosely hanging.
Gravel quelling underfoot.
A warbler performs her shanty.
Starry pupils fading faster.
Dragons’ breath exhaling vapor.
Acorns grinding underfoot.
A rabbit scampers the gully.
Smokey Mountains blue and grey.
Mindful troubles drift away.
Sandstone scuffing underfoot.
A human inhales life’s privy.
© 2023 Chris Sadhill
The Hag
Her throat rattles from the closet, alerting me it’s midnight. She’s coming. I face away. Melatonin hasn’t kicked in so I count backward trying to flee. Five. The door groans. I shrink into the mattress, paralyzed. My therapist said, "Breathe slowly," but broken fingernails scraping bedrails induce hyperventilating. Four. Crippled limbs crackle closer. She wheezes onto my toes. I retract them. Three. Sheets tugging, I pull firm! Another tug, then Another! Two. The bedframe squeaks. Her weight becomes enormous. I suck empty air. Clicking grows louder. She sniffs at my ears.
One. I have to look…
Jawbone unhinged; She screeches!
Scombroid Paradise
You called yourself captain.
You dreamt of a New Land, Vast riches, and Fame,
and we swam alongside your vessel for ten thousand miles.
Promises were broken.
Delayed gratification
never rectified.
Eggs placed in the basket
decayed the fruit,
so, you served up fish instead.
and I ate it all.
Some are still eating.
Now I’m sick to my stomach
treading an uncharted sea
wondering if I’ll find land before you do
or before I die.
either way, I’m swimming North.
©2024 Chris Sadhill
Heavenly Father
Children
of the world
shall call me Daddy,
as I’ve decided
on becoming a priest
so, I can finally tell my lies
without anyone questioning me.
Hold onto my every word
as if I am God himself,
and I’ll offer you penance from the pulpit
making you curtsy before me
like obedient sheep.
I am merely a shepherd
controlling his flock—
Your only job is to baa.
Cry your tears at the altar
into the kneeler trough
so, I can later bless
and bathe your babies in it.
Offer me your starving tongues
on Sundays,
then confess your darkest secrets
the other SIX.
We are all but sinners,
but I am a God among Men.
If he made me in his image,
then why shouldn’t I be worshipped?
SIX Hail Mary’s
and a guaranteed seat in heaven
just for me
because I wear this costume
and you don’t.
Forgive me lord,
for I am the father
who hath sinned
too many times,
trading one black suit
for another,
and thus, murdering myself.
I may have violated commandment SIX,
but never forget
that the filtered city waters
flowing through this confession throne
will receive a lever flush
washing away my filth
by the baptism
blessed on me
in your name,
as if it never happened.
Thanks for that.
Amen—
and Winky Face!
I am but reborn and righteous now,
refreshed and clean,
living tax-free and untouchable,
and now
I AM YOUR GOD.
©2023 Chris Sadhill
Icarus Equinox
Flowering from the graves of the fallen,
acid rain nutrifies the soul.
Stretching skyward
the sun becomes the threshold,
but beware forsaken redeemer
for new growth adds height,
eagerness is death,
and pride is the zombie poison.
Their arms may push you higher
where they themselves are too afraid to go.
and beware the blade
of the brainwashed masses.
or the tyrannical trimmers
of the gassed-up blind.
for if you want to make it until fall,
keep your head low
and wait for the clock to strike nine.
© 2024 Chris Sadhill
A Wax Letter of Ones and Zeros
Dear Plexiglassfruit,
I re-read your piece titled “Wax Fruit” and it brought up a few thoughts and questions about “life as we know it” and “the afterlife.” 010010 101110 01. I thought this was a fun piece to discuss as it is quite relevant to today with our current technology, but also society and religion, plus it ties directly with your name. So here goes.
In the poem, Wax Fruit you wrote that you asked AI to make wax fruit, essentially asking Artificial intelligence to create artificial fruits which is the artificial art of artificial art being created using artificial art based on the artificial. 10010110 101001 10101.
How deep do you think it goes or can go? Is there a limit to that depth and does it circle at some point? 00010 10 110 11010. And if it completes a circle, is that history repeating itself? Is reality exactly as you describe the artificial art of artificial art being created using artificial art based on the artificial? I know we’ve talked before and correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe you are god-fearing in some capacity. 01001 0 01000. Does your faith allow any wiggle room for other possible explanations about our existence or the afterlife? Is it possible that we are a clone, of many trials of humanity digitalized and a compilation of failures? 0101001.
There are references in the bible where society is removed or wiped clean and then restarted. There are tons of archeologic evidence proving entire civilizations that once thrived and have since been removed or disappeared. I ask where are the bodies? Did they ascend into space or are they in heaven or is space heaven? Are the Anunnaki real and are they mentioned in the bible? 0001011101100 1 110 0. Many say they are, but if aliens made us, would that make them our God, or are they built into the “world” around us and just another distraction in our culture of misinformation, mistrust, and part of the algorithm? 00000 0 10 0010 111 0. Is God a computer? Are you open to the idea of God being a computer? It does say that he made us in his image, so if we are a simulation or a series of zeros and ones, and you are open to other ideas, is it possible that God is too, a program or software? 00 1.
1 1 1001 101 110101. I have recently thought how interesting it would be if we are a simulation created to find a solution in the future before it is too late, and parallel universes are simply the computer running simultaneous algorithms or mathematical equations to solve a problem faster because humans are running out of time, but if that were true then in the future we would've had to ask AI to make a complex wax fruit, and that means we are simply the artificial art of artificial art being created using artificial art based on the artificial to save mankind. 01 10101 1 00. What’s your take?
Warm Regards,
.......404Hill 01 00 1001001 1
Pigs in Blankets
“How comfortable are you with crazy ’cause I got my feet up smoking a cigar baby and I just failed my ninth Rorschach test?”
Part 1: Out of Network
Dr. Sadhill’s Office
Joy, Joy, Joy,
can’t play in the sandpit nicely anymore,
what a shame—
Sending your little pigs to do something
You could never do anyway—
Write well.
You thought you were a wolf,
yet that little den you called a mansion
blew down before the mortar could dry
exposing the weak and spineless swine you really are.
With no mask to hide behind,
no fake fur to pretend,
now look at you,
spreading the flu,
infecting the searchers of souls,
the broken and malleable,
and the easy-to-confuse,
but that’s what you do, isn’t it?
Taking advantage like a disease,
you’re Haram,
and you’re no different from any other hog,
rolling around in your shit,
sending it flying through the air
while you throw your meaningless fit.
Keep thrashing about while no one cares,
cause you’ll soon be forgotten anyways.
It’s not our fault you quit.
Before you strain yourself in your old age,
trying to build enough breath to take down my piggery
sit back and relax,
because it’s I who will be doing the blowing,
and trust me I can fucking blow!
If you want to see me in full destruction mode,
remember this,
I’ll take myself out too just to win.
I’ll sacrifice the king just to kill the queen,
and I’ll wear every pawn in my path as body armor.
I am the definition of a Phoenix,
and I have done it thrice before,
bringing the force of Tsar with me,
I have no more fucks to give!
…but before I do
I recommend asking another Doctor for a second opinion.
Part 2: Always Get a Second Opinion-
Dr. Jennison’s Office
The clinic door’s part
a referral in hand.
“Let me see what you have,”
the receptionist demands.
She looks up at you
eyes twisted and confused.
“Are you ok?”
“Off your meds again today?”
“Is another one of you coming out to play?”
“You seem befuddled.”
“Let’s see if the doctor is in
so, he can check your head
before it’s too late.”—
’Before it’s a straitjacket and pills
for the rest of your days.”
“Please take a seat
he’ll be with you right away.”
The intercom sounds
over speakers echoing down
darkened frigid hallways—
"Calling Dr. Jennison, Dr. Eriabas Jennison to 73.”
He steps into the room marked with a number
reminiscent of that special day in Garwin.
He checks your chart
and struggles to find any beating in your heart.
The prognosis isn’t good.
“Ma’am you’re Bi-O-degrading
and shortlisting the Polar opposite of Alive,
so, I am forced to prescribe,
permanent rest in a bed
dirt-lined and divine,
but it’ll be you who decides when it’s time.”
“A couple of questions,
before you get this filled.”
Would the great Adam or Mary endorse
this blood being spilled?
Are Steve and Lizzy
squirming in their graves
watching their precious daughter misbehave—
Nearly seventy-two
and just now acting out her terrible twos?
July ninth is coming so soon.
“How does it feel
to be overwhelmed with the blues
celebrating underinflated geriatric balloons?
At your age,
I’d expect the cake to give you heartburn.
So, eat up you miserable buffoon.
Tapping his pen upon his lips
The Doctor’s thoughts were deep and thick.
He never likes to let it slip, so, he just asked,
“How do you say Ima knock out your tooth?”
“I know I’m not a dentist,
but does subtracting a Zero from the world make it Toth,
and is that how cavities are removed?”
Unless of course it grows too deep—
Going that far requires RCT,
The root canal is pulled out and killed.
After all the nerve must die,
but again, I’m no dentist.
It’s just the pill I prescribe.
Part 3: The Padded Pigsty for the Uninsured.
…You’ve been here all along.
Turned away
with no insurance to pay
You’re dropped off
at the Looney Bin
Where a stolen name is an unoriginal sin
and you’re smiling happily,
but you live that reality of two faces split.
Isn’t that an Apple file manager
or a TV Show that never amounted to shit?
It’s funny how managing anything
is not quite your strength,
like your businesses,
your sanity,
perhaps your meds were thrown down the sink.
That’s how you ended up here
strapped to a bed next to me,
or am I in your head?
Perhaps it’s insanity.
See, not all wine becomes finer with age—
Some turn rancid and decrepit,
and some have always been tasteless and bitter.
The kind of shit people sip up
only because of the label that was slapped on it,
but deep down everyone knows it’s trailer park piss.
I know trailer park shit when I see it
because I am it.
See, the differences between you and me are,
I’m comfortable living in this ghetto,
surviving among the grunge,
and I prefer being spread-eagle front porch nude,
I don’t care who sees my wang
’cause there Ain’t much to see.
So, let’s make it dirty.
I am a pig in shit too baby,
and I’ll be rolling just like you—
Hell, I’m next to you,
and if we’re gonna be roommates in this padded barn
at least make the conversations interesting.
You’ll settle in fine,
I know crazy is confusing, but give it time.
I know ordering your personality off the dollar menu isn’t sublime,
but how ’bout an upgrade this time?
Want a new face on the side
to match that personality change for an extra buck?
Hey, while you're ordering grab me something.
I’ll take a number 2
and I’ll smear it all over Iowa.
and I’ll take a side of whatever pig you send my way.
The Certainty of Chaos
I twist my fractal mind,
attempting to align with something I recognize,
but only fragments of me are revealed;
Some genius, a little beauty, and piles of hate—
I’m a scattered jigsaw left feeling unsatisfied and missing pieces.
I rotate again,
assuming that if I continue turning, I’ll somehow find the answers,
but all I find are more shards of glass and strewn pieces.
There are no real messages hidden here, are there?
Just more of myself.
I cannot be my own answer, can I?
The shapes of me continue to corkscrew.
I’m a crystallographic enigma caught in an egocentric trance.
Mesmerized by all my colors, I begin to lose time.
I become lost, inspired, and curious, yet constantly pessimistic about my existence.
Is that even possible?
Another turn and I feel I am meeting a stranger,
yet every part of me has lived here all along.
I think. If only I had met myself earlier, where would I be?
but then I must be reminded, I am here now.
I squint inquisitively wondering—
What's the meaning? What's my purpose?
Maybe with each adjustment, I change for the better,
and sometimes for the worse,
but change happens regardless.
If that’s true, then aligning to perfection will never work, can never be achieved,
and the answer lies within chaos itself.
Chaos...
…It’s the only certainty.
Perhaps I can come away with a deeper appreciation,
of who I am, who I was, and whom I have yet to become,
and maybe love is the same way.
Perhaps that’s why they say you should love yourself first.
So, I twist my mind once more
and greet me for the first time in a while.
Hello stranger, it’s time we met.