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September 10, 2002 book of the dead                     I once knew a girl who ate quaaludes like candy.                     The effects of the drug left her feeling quite randy. "Who am I kidding?" he thought. "I'm no poet."  From his position on the lower bunk, he could see the underside of the mattress above him.  The single sheet of writing paper lay on his chest, crumpled now, like a parched brain.  The cell was dark except for pencil-sized beams of light streaming from perforations in an overturned metal washtub.  A holy candle, a gift from his grandmother, burned beneath the washtub. Manslaughter, my ass.  He wasn't a man and I sure didn't slaughter him.  I just beat him to death with his own unabridged copy of the Tibetan Book of the Dead.

©  2002 by the beastmaster