In the Lap of the Grim Reaper

It's a fallacy. Men create myths so as to empower themselves. Even in Death-- suggesting that I come to them! The reverse, my friends. The reverse. You will come to me, and you will do so willingly, as a submission-- to all Eternity.

The legendary black cloak? You'll be trying, desperately, to wrap yourself in it, when your Time comes. A coverlet for the bareness of the soul, so newly stricken, as to still be shivering-- postmortem.

I am gargantuan, and yawning; a Centenarian, whose face changes every hundred years, an easy chair of black sheep skin reclining with Life's remote control in hand. The "Grim Reaper," is what my Chairmanship, in syndicate, is called.

And your pilot is on---

Roger Arnold Blattman. January 20, 1945. Rock and roller since 1968 and a half. Ashamed of his name, his body, his hair, his family, his neighborhood... so plain and insignificant a rodent, gnawing at his own psyche. Trying desperately to carve out a passageway to immortality.

To the world, he would be Ray Mondo of the Blaizers.

Cray Cray. Brooding man of Mystery. Wild do, mealy attitude, ladies, booze, drug paraphernalia... all in a strange Facade; one his Manager said was, "necessary."

"Ray Mondo, we give the world what it wants to believe, goddammit... in Substance. In abuse. You know-- In the Devil, itself. The Artist, Mad and Possessed. Nobody is interested in the unsexy story of a yoowho practicing arduous hours, day in and day out, to polish off some incoherent lyrics. Dude. We're selling an after Image. An effen' Story-- of Success," slapping his protege Rog in the back of the cranium to kickstart the next big album.

He'd always had these misgivings, about his potential Following and the inevitable dappling in pseudo creative "behaviors" that posers would try on, in the wake of his live band sets. Ridiculous acts sported like ludicrous underwear-- with a striving for that sideline lick of Infamy. Misunderstanding that, behind the scenes, he was nothing more than a Slave to his craft. An ordinary joe X in boxers, abstaining from all the bullshit, so he could fully focus on the nuanced delivery, of Performance.

Hell, the early sacrifices meant he'd abstained from Eating, as well as drinking; from Heating and cooling; from taking Weekends; from true Love, or the generic Companionship of people, or animals even.

The work, that was the thing. The Fix.

The only drugs he'd taken, were the ones he was on today--prescribed by his doctors.

Chasers for anxiety, high blood pressure, low insulin and hormone irregularities. The pursuit of something in the distance had drained him. It took less and less make believe to project this gaunt mask of the famed Persona. His cheeks were sunken naturally, and the dark circles around his eyes were real. So was the rasp in his voice.

From my perspective, he was ready to succeed--

Sitting now, on the toilet, staring out the midnight window, wondering where it all went wrong. Crusading after windmills. Carrying the imbalance of priorities on his conscience. Feeding vultures at break. The future always laughing. Teasing. Things falling out of existence; as the loose teeth of reoccurring dreams. Sinking and rising with the crocodiles in the bayou. Like would-be friends waving from behind the watery windows of moving vehicles. The rain pouring in ever-present Champagne commercials. His glasses falling over the bridge of his nose. Slipping and fogging up in the sweat of the sultry Alabama evening. 

He sensed himself vaguely, and his audience, on either side a heavy screen. But he could still hear the cheering of that expansive blackened amphitheater. Spotlights blinding him from actually seeing anyone out there in it.

"There must be one more song in you," he whispers to the empty roll of TP, detached and straining.

"A hit."

His mind, darkening. He doesn't know it, but he's hemorrhaging.

He'll lose consciousness shortly.

"Stacy??" he says in an inaudible voice, and she calls out to him independently.

"Rog? you alright in there?" shuffling up to the door in her slippers, diligent in her house keeping. Multi savers-pack of toilet paper cradled in her arms. "I ran to the store yesterday." Tap, tap... sweeping the loose strands of silvered hair out of her face. Concern amplifying her wrinkles.

"ughh..." so quietly as to be mistaken for the house walls settling.

"Rog?"

Silence.

"Roger?"

He's doubled over. He sees the circular opening--- the sound hole of his rhythm guitar. That darkest part. A portal. Safety. No longer the butt end of a joke that he'd always feared of being or becoming. He's climbing out--

--and I am waiting, to cloak him, in the comfort that only I can provide. He'll sit well here for the next 100 years.