The Salamander

An old farmer from Topeka decided he wanted to see New York and find out what all the hullabaloo is about so he packed his bags and got on the first flight to the Big Apple. Because it had always been his dream he went to the Empire State Building and got on the elevator all the way up to the top floor where, to his delight, he discovered a bar. While waiting for his beer, he spied a large, bespectacled man alone on the bar. The farmer got up and went to the nice looking fella.

“Say,” said the farmer. “This here’s a great city, ain’t it?”

The large man ignored the farmer.

“Everything here’s big and shiny and fast,” the old farmer continued.

Again the large man ignored the farmer.

The farmer sighed. “The problem with you city people,” he began, “is that everyone’s so damn unhappy. I look around me now and I see unhappy people everywhere. That’s because you folks never talk to each other. As if it’s embarrassing for you to be civil to each other—”

“You’re not from around here,” the large man finally said.

“Nope,” replied the farmer. “I’m from Topeka.”

The large man nodded. “In Topeka, how many floors does your tallest building have?”

The old farmer scratched his head. “Gee, I dunno. Twenty floors, maybe?”

The large man nodded again. “You see, the Empire State Building has five times that, mister. And at this height, the air currents are so strong that if you step off the building they’re going to blow you back. It’s the nearest thing to flying.”

“Son,” the farmer replied in a low voice. “I didn’t get this old by believing every crock of shit thrown my way. If I stepped off that ledge I’m gonna fall like Lucifer and dash my brains upon the street below.”

The large, bespectacled man didn’t reply. He merely got up and walked towards the edge of the building. He then climbed the ledge and, the wind whipping his hair and clothes back, stepped off the building to the horror of the old farmer.

The large man seemed to fall off the building but, lo and behold, the wind blew him back to the ledge.

“Holy Christ,” the farmer exclaimed with wide, disbelieving eyes.

“Go try it yourself,” the large man said.

The old farmer climbed up the ledge, stepped off the Empire State Building, and promptly fell to the street below where he died.

The large, bespectacled man went back to the bar to finish his drink and then gestured the bartender for another.

As he was pouring the large man another shot of whiskey, the bartender said: “You’re such a dick when you’re drunk, Superman.”

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

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I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

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I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

I will not post bad poems on the Internet.

Do you remember what love was like when we were young? That was a time when love was a mysterious thing, full of wonder and madness, answerable to none for love itself was the higher law. Love was God and Jesus and the Holy Spirit. And if They didn’t agree, then screw Them and the horse They rode in on.

The world must step aside because we were in love. The universe must cease to exist because we were the only universe that mattered anymore. The accumulated wisdom of the entire human race was wrong because love dictated all wisdom.

That was a time when fucking was called making love, even though the common sense of young fools said that love was not something you can make or even choose. Love, then, was as unmakable as it was inescapable. Still, we called it making love because sex was only the wealthier uncle of masturbation and fucking was the dirty dog that licked his own ‘nads in front of the house.

Thus we made love.

Before it was done, we thought our desires inevitable. The act was discussed in the dark, plotted like murder, and executed like a revolution. The deed itself was done in desperation, full of enthusiasm where style was lacking. And after it was done, we thought our sins original.

There’s this fable that I learned when I was in Kindergarten. Once upon a time, there was a grasshopper who always chided his friend the ant because the latter was always working.

"Be like me," the grasshopper said. "I play and have fun all day, hopping about and making music."

The ant was aghast. "Are you fucking nuts?! If I don’t search for food the hive is gonna starve when winter comes! You’d better load up too while you still have time, my friend."

"Tush," said the grasshopper. "There’s food everywhere. Why bother?" And he went his merry way.

Soon, the leaves started turning yellow and falling off. Then winter came. The grasshopper, having nothing to eat, knocked on the ant’s door. When the ant opened up, he was shocked to find the grasshopper looking so thin.

"P-please," the grasshopper said. "I am starving. Give me something to eat…"

So what happens next? Well, if you were born after 1990 it seems the ant took the grasshopper in and fed him. The two friends had a serious talk about priorities, and learning to think ahead. The grasshopper then promised that he wouldn’t be so happy-go-lucky anymore. He’d find a job and save up for the future. And they all lived happily ever after.

But…

The version I grew up with wasn’t so optimistic. When the ant saw the pitiful condition of the grasshopper, the little bastard laughed like a loon and turned his emaciated friend away.

"You… stupid… fuck," the ant said in a low voice. "I told you to go and load up before winter. I can’t give you anything now. We barely have enough to last us till spring. Now go away and don’t die near my house." And the ant closed the door.

The grasshopper went away and died in the snow. And a whole generation of Kindergarten pupils grew up and had anxiety attacks whenever their jobs were being threatened. A whole generation of whores who would forsake their dreams for a paycheck.

Now ask me why I’m writing a pulp novel.