Dog On A Roof, or A Curious Mycenae Welcome

Like a dog I lie on the roof, watchful. Tighly knit. Tightky knit and  tightly pearl, knit, pearl, knit, pearl. Pearls, rubies, carbuncles, hopeful diamonds. Is the hope that the king will return, at last from his decades of war in the East? The battles may bring him back the same man, or perhaps he’s now turned into a fresh beast of no name? Would the city sit tight and embrace such a creature? What about the queen? Left long at home and on her own, might she steer this old knitting tangle into a new form? She, deep rooted in her City, she mightn’t budge from her throne overlooking the roof of the domain. Do we condemn her? It’s been eight long years, and the man has vanished, yet in his absence, through her sweat and toil, the City thrives. Silos burgeon with wheat, rice, tomohawks, and ginger ale. It’s a fruitful time, all would agree. But hostile. Watchful.

Like a dog I lie on the roof. See the fires burn? bonfire, bonfire, bonfire, closer and closer, a signal to mark my king’s triumphant return. Return to the desolate, the deconsolate, the trouble in mind, so why dont you lay your head down on a pallet of straw? Or the lap of a scarecrow –  theres straw in them thar innards. Scarecrow dont entirely mind, I hear. With their solemn watch, their propped up hollowness, such a very mid-west “hay there, hows it going” attitude, the silence might be taken for aquiescence. And up goes the straw in the shower of sparks, another bonfire to bring the great one home, another bonfire to burn.

But look to the east, dog. It’s Manifest Destiny, and those in the know take our young man not west, but east, to the hills and dells and deserts and Gymnosophists. Taking our bland bodies to the wise, wanting them to spill out all the answers, turn tales to sooth one’s spirit. But their story’s spun backward. We may want the words, then knit them up, once again we knit, closely knit, and boyscout’s knots bundle together, sardines in a gordian bond.


Lead me on, lead me on. Whither we tread, little we know, lest that which gathers in the bowels of Balso’s steed be shown. And we wouldnt want that, would we?

At second glance, perusing the annals of humour through the ages, I detect the strong thread of lower bodily strata. 4 fluids of the body, blood, phlegm, choler, and black bile – meandering, senseless through our vessel, undermining any sense of longevity or constitutional upright attitude. Pompeii’s toilette grafifiti, Rabelais’ bunghole, it’s much ado about Nothing, you say, but Nothing was so much in it’s day.

O’ my hinny, my nag, o’ beast of burden, yea milch cow, little lambkin mine. The little endearment bestowed upon the great horse. the great hollow horse, the great hollow horse who follows me back to the city wall, the city wall, waiting to enter.

by C. Moreno

The Horse and the Hand, by C. Moreno




A crescent moon shines on the park.

Swans drift, sleepy on the lake.

The leafy trees glow intermittently with small soft lights.

Shady figures move under the trees.



JORGE DIEGO, 30ish; he sweats – something is wrong.

DON DIEGO, Jorge’s son, 5 years old, points up to the trees-
Where fairy lights slowly glow. On. Off. On. Off. On…

“Papa, what are the pretty lights?”

“Witches, Don Diego…”

Jorge grimaces, suddenly grabs his stomach.

Pain. Tries not to let his son know –

“…To steal our souls.”

Don reaches out for his father.

“What’s wrong?”


A moment. Worried.

“Papa? Can we go home?”

“No. I’ve got business.”

With a loud <GROAN>, Jorge doubles over.

His face contorts in pain.




Another man’s face, beat to a bloody pulp, distorted in pain.

AZTLÁN, in his 30s, skinny, prison tats, shaved head.

He’s curled on the ground.


OFFICER DIAZ accentuates his kicks.

“Don’t. You. Ever. Mouth. Off.”

Clubs and black cop shoes slam down on his body.

Aztlán gushes red.

“To. An. Officer. Got that, Aztlan?”


Beside the police, a high cement wall.


A man crouches in silhouette crouches high atop the wall.


His eyes narrow as he watches the assault-
Shoves a black bandana over his face.

Pulls low rider sunglasses down.

Spits in palm.

Slicks his pompadour, over the low hair net.

Pulls on black gloves.

Leaps from the wall.

Black Converse hit the dirt… He <CLICKS> his tongue.

The Officers turn.

“It’s that shitbird, Zorro!”

ZORRO: slight, fit; wearing old school 70’s/80’s.

Wife beater, high belted pants, long zoot suit chain.

Sunglasses and banana hide his face.

A harness with spray cans on his belt.

Zorro smiles at Officers Jen Ctvrtlanik and Virgil Diaz.

“Orale, Mutherfuckers.”

On the ground, Aztlán groans.

Ready when you are.


Diaz lunges forward.

Zorro’s fist pops his switch blade, then throws it.

Diaz’s pant cuff pinned to a tree.

Ctvrtlanik lunges.

Zorro whips his chain thought the air.

Ctvrtlanik’s legs tangle in the chain.

She hits the ground, hard.


Diaz tears his pant leg free.

Swings at Zorro.

Zorro steps aside, they barely brush.

Diaz reaches for his gun.

The holster is empty.


Zorro twirls the police gun around his finger.

Levels the gun at Diaz.

Diaz falls to his knees.

“Oh please, no…”

Zorro shoves the gun to Diaz’s temple.

“Look at me.”

Diaz covers.

“I’ve got a family.”

Zorro pulls the gun away.

“You know, you can’t trust these things…”

Zorro shrugs and tosses the gun into the bushes.

“Cause someone could get hurt.”

Diaz lunges for Zorro.

Zorro is ready with a spray can.

A stream of paint sprays into Diaz’s face.

“Art, however…”

The paint blasts Diaz’s eyes.

Zorro makes a “Z” on the Diaz’s face.

“Never did no one no harm.”


Close on the cement wall, on colorful arcs of spraying paint.

The color plumes into a brilliant design.

This city could use a little more


Zorro backs up from painting.

Smiles at his spray paint creation.

The two officers are on the ground, in their own handcuffs.

Aztlán wipes blood from his eyes.

He smiles as he watches Zorro paint.

“You are one twisted vato.”

With a flourish, Zorro adds his “Z” tag to his graffiti.

Slab City sc. 1

Grey and yellow clouded sky.
A sign: Slab City – You’re Almost There”.
A motorcyclist zooms past, through-
Bleak clumps of trailers.
A rotting school bus.
The cross on Salvation Mountain.
The Doric arch of Court Argos.

Every night for twelve months, thirteen moons…

Through the Doric arch of trailerpark, “Court Argos”.
The Watcher, silhouetted at entrance.
The trailers seem asleep.
Except at the back of the court, a red orange light glows from the big doublewide window.

Tethered like a dog. Time to release me.

The watcher, arms and face thrown upward to the dark sky.
He wears running shoes on skinny legs, and a day-glo Speedo mostly obscured by his bloated gut.
He mouths with Cassie’s VO.
Then it’s just his voice.

Sick of the heavens, sick of the darkness.

Flicking candlelight.
Tight slash of red lips around a straw.
Raccoon eyelashes.
KYLEEN heats meth on a light bulb with the top broken off.

Everything’s changed in this palace.

Kyleen sucks the straw stuck in the light bulb.
It glows bright.

No dreams.

Smoke curls from Kyleen’s nostrils.

No sleep.

The trailer door slams open.
In the doorway, IGGY.
He wears greasy leathers,
German style motorcycle helmet, and gas mask.

Kyleen Baby – I’m back!

Iggy You scared the shit out of me. Take off that mask, you stupid ratsucker!

Kyleen baby, time to move – there’s a twister out there.

I’m busy.

Kyleen takes another hit.

Gotta go. Now.

Alright! Alright! Alright! I heard ya!

And gimme that. It’s no good for you.

Iggy yanks the paraphernalia from Kyleen.
He lights it up.

You stink.

Iggy takes another hit.

Not so bad.

Like I need you to tell me that! Our guys make the best.


Rain pours down.
Black columns in the clouds.
Iggy rides his motorcycle.
Kyleen on a small All Terrain Vehicle.
Their headlamps illuminate the Watcher.

I wait.

Kyleen stops her bike.
The Watcher stands in her headlamp beam.
His naked belly, glows.
He clenches both fists above his head.

The light never comes!

Kyleen looks at Iggy.

What the fuck is this?

I sing, weeping! The signs are here…

Iggy holds his hand up in “who knows?” gesture.
The Watcher half dances, half lurches toward them.

Look for the flame! The beacon!

Kyleen’s gloved hand revs the accelerator.

Gimme a goddam break.

The watcher rolls his eyes skyward, prancing around.

The king comes from the east! I shall be releas-

The watcher’s silhouette in Kyleen’s headlamp.
She smashes into him.

Mush mouth mumblin’ sonofabitch.

Kyleen and Iggy ride away.
The watcher’s body shudders into a corpse.

A black tornado in the distance.


Leather jacket back: BORDER LORDS MC, AZ CHAPTER.

Eye level at the biker strip club stage, Cassie, 18, hangs upside down on a pole, looking directly at us. Positioned like the tarot Hanged Man, Cassie looks very Goth, in a black g-string, fishnet finger-less gloves and high-heeled patent leather boots. She wears heavy black eye make up, dark red lipstick and long blue-black hair – sort of a stripper Morticia vibe. Her small stage is made from a giant tractor tire. Behind her, the club, smoky and dimly lit. Several stages like Cassie’s have dancing girls on them, and bikers sitting around the table. The entire joint crawls with tough looking 1%s, the kind of outlaw bikers that give Harley a bad name. Emblazoned on their backs, a hog death’s head with flaming wings, and rockers that say: BORDER LORDS MC, AZ CHAPTER. More strippers hang out around the bar. Motorcycle paraphernalia, pin ups and beer signs dangle across the walls. Cassie addresses the camera.

You bored yet?

cynics, canines, wine-crossed visions in the stars

The young man, the vanity bloated, insecure-would-be-conquerer of the known world seeks audience with the man who lives in a barrel, reeking of wine, stained by the purple sediments in the great jar of his housing.

Diogenese, in his drunken half remembered labors, gave the finger to Alexander. The sun blotted from the sky and Mr D rolled his eyes to the heavens, waving his hand to helio’s glory. The vain boy casts a shadow, and the philosipher is losing valuable tanning time.

Laika would come to understand another side, the dark side of the celestial realms, the flip side of the philosopher’s heaven. But thats getting ahead of ourselves.

But in this moment, the scales fell from the eyes of the callow stripling, Mssr A the Great, who sits aloft the great bellowing Bucephalus. “Now I understand!” Alexander exclaims, “It’s all about destroying the Temple. Leveling the world. Constructing giant repositories of knowledge, and building the vast playground on the backs of skin stripped slaves. This, in my three and thirty years, I can do. So now, to conquer the known world… And beyond.” The strapping youth, presaging the son of man by many score o’ years, proceeded to hack away at the world’s most profound mysteries, knots unfurling in flames, like tendrils around Persepolis and associated hanging gardens. To the terror of mathematical genius, screams of desert djinns and fearful lamb soaked smoke then filled the land(s).

But first, Alexander’s eye turned inward for further revelation. “How might I have not seen this before? I must rebuild the universe after mine own countenance.” Jesus never had it so good. And thus the feminine locations dotted the geography, all the way galloping towards the gymnosophists, humming the lilting melodies of Satie all the way.

You bet your sweet bottom, this is a legend born. Borne. Bjorn.

Mean while, back at ye old ranch, the bear, old Bear, dear cuddling great bear with a red sickle of despair, claimed the title of Alexander’s inheritor – and in more recent years, claimed the heavens.

Ach, the canine of dear Diogenes, sitting dapper in laced suits, waiting for oxygenated pods, fettered and locked while the terror of flashing stars and exploding rockets, dim doggie senses. Laika ah laika oh darling balalaika, sing a sleepy lullabye in the stars.

It was all the  fevered dream of a

It was all the  fevered dream of a wine drunk soldier, sunk in a nightmare, him late of the fallen walls of the city in flame.  The walls of troy, the fallen soldiers.

So easily daunted. The shift from Jason to Troy, just from reading some book that reenacted the Argonauts tale in the most lyrical prose. Rife with fragments from other times and recipes. 

The hackneyed stumbling stories of mine (yes, hackneyed is underscored with tragic pun usage), the tales of nothing to everyone, yet everything in my small world – these become delicate lacy lettered reminders of inadequacy. But that matters not at all. I am in a vacuum, placing words in the boundless static of space, restive despite the darkening cloud of doubt.


Zebra/Mannequins, where finches and trojans meet. The mannikin is a bossy bird, ruling the aviary. The zebra finch is prolific and loud, it’s progeny springing forth “like rats” (to quote the local eastern european bird salesman, but more on that presently)..

Obviously, the trojans discovered these horses, or rather this horse, and believing these/this a gift from the gods, they ripped the bastard horse belly only to discover the fierce soldiers lurking inside. The men of argos and allied troops sprung force to slice and dice torsos, and cleave heads a sunder. 

Gift horses? Forget it. 

Zebras are the next fatty pork belly, and pork belly is the next black. 

Mannequins serve the surface, and the surface conquers great nations. Great nations come and go.

Finches it is.