Nut by Ralph Bailey, PLUS

ADDENDUM

 How do you explain this series of events? George, all his life long, had major problems. Why was not this damage to his personality addressed sooner? I am certain that President Bush was to blame. It was under his watch were to become a nation mentally impaired and socially nonactive. It twas under his command that bound up the immediate need of the soon to be you. No underling government, no State and the Local levels, can be accorded sudden sustenance during need without the sting of bureaucratic red tape being ripped off our collective butts infecting us with the poison sickle of Time. Oh, yes, my friends, George had a serious problem. And I cannot say that George’s fate, the sneaky stew of anonymity we partake each day, need never happen again. But no, ye brave incisible, invisible daughters and sons of Nobody of old, you poets in the healing wind of nothing, and you there, you who will become vapors in the clouds seen only by the blind, all of us, butt first, we will suffer the backdraft of the Julian Millennium, and know not how our cry to the Source for our lives comes out of our pores like bile from the horses of the Apochrapit, and how it will go to the Bad in our unknown disintegration. It is true. We will shake the hand of Hades for its constant availability. Then the trauma of losing our sense of freedom will be deemed unredeemable, as well. For we will hand over televisions of deprivation, bodiflex, doctor phil, families of comic bereavement, the most exciting medical examiners and their gooey extravagations of that wondrous anatomical dig in search of the archeology of identification whoopee. Destruction and expirations, they say as they are unplugged, is the thing, to catch the con shush of the King but let me tell you one thing. Better to sink mireward than to leave a friend. Better to play the trombone than to curse the water. And, you, too, bandit bandmates, rather to hoist the cow than to see it drown. And most of fall, plan for the end, plan for the next Thursday, and be found with me, floating in the friendly snakes of home. And, me, I'm Ralph Bailey (NUT:The STORY copyright 2007 Weemus Studio)

Nut, Part 3

George Zacker was never seen again by man nor beast. His mother lies there at home in her hospital bed, not knowing what’s going on. Beth and Sandy moved in to share the work of full-time caregivers. They almost broke up several times due to the surreal stress of this arrangement. They finally moved Mrs. Zacker to an assisted-living complex in Jackson, Georgia, twenty-five miles south of Atlanta in the tranquil woods of Henry County. Beth and her beautiful partner moved north and built a house among the breeze of gardenia and patchouli in the sweet Georgia hills near Lake Burton. Oh, and Beth, by the way, talked one night to Sandy about a memorial service for George. But time went by and it was never done, and they never talked about it again as if to ask without really thinking it, “ But why?”. Thursday visits Margie, not knowing that every time she shows up it is at the exact moment Margie is making coffee. They gulp laughter, almost choking on it, spraying coffee from their lips, covering their mouths splattering it all over the floor. They straighten up for a moment at one time or another and mention that the pot is good, but never again as good as it was “beFORE the SKWER-uhl.” Nut had no descendants. No little squirrels out there to skip in that funny way that Nut did. I just know it’s true. Just go outside. Look around. Look around in the park. Do you see any cute little squirrels doing cartwheels?