Science Fiction

Seeing Permanent Red

They say us red heads have
tempers like East Coast weather
unpredictable and vicious.

I would argue this point but
it would only send me into
another full blown raging whirl wind.

I turn into a Snickers-less Joe Pesci.
I become Oppenheimer.

Without a moment’s notice.
Even my Jekyll is more like
most people’s Hyde.

Today when I could not find my hat
I felt like I needed it
like some average Junky,
then the more I couldn’t find it,
the more I became Herbert Hunke.

Suddenly I was a barrel short
of 12 angry monkey’s.

I miss a bus and start mumbling
to my room:

“How in the history
of all the holiest fucks
of fucking fuckers
have I lost this goddamn hat
when I have yet to leave the
house today?”

The theories get elaborate, fast.
Some kind of starving, stray
micro-goat-like creature
which normally subsists off odd socks
has not found one lately and has
decided to get brazen.

I must still be wearing it I say,
and pat my red, slowly
sweat-gathering
heavy hair.
Nope.

I check the legs of jeans
startling my bed’s frame
like crusty farmer clothes on
rickety, birch fences.

My inner Shining
declares that
Genes got me here
to begin with.

I go to punch air
and I hit the corner of my door
gashing open my hand,
now I’m bleeding and
cursing and mumbling and
tossing clothes around
like a baglady at the last
Sally Ann sale of the Earth
positive that any second I will
start to shit out everything
I have ever lost
and that’s a lot, a lot, a lot of shit.

By the time I give up and
put my hoody on
I’ve missed another bus
I’ve screamed in italic’s of cuss
I’ve prayed like a desperate Catholic
to a Mexican pick up truck’s Jesus-rust.

Curse this temper of mine.
All it was ever good for
were broken Super Nintendo controllers
dry wall craters covered in NIN posters
and a good post-meltdown chuckle
like the one just now,
while writing this poem.

Maybe that’s enough.

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Death of a Movie Lover (Re-Birth of a Blade Runner)

In 2014 the technology with which to finally transport people into the future was given up on in lieu of pursuing more manageable goals. From this dark era comes the newest fad: A vacation you take in your mind! Advertised as the perfect gift for the film obsessed person in your life, the Recall Institute uses technology beyond my own personal intellectual ability to fathom or explain, end result being our ability to be fused into Science Fiction films of the past, today!

This is not my last scene. I have yet to traipse through 2019 Los Angeles, to kiss her smoggy world with my 20th century senses. I have, in short, only just arrived from the Recall Institute , and I am not ready to go yet. The beeping indicates I have to return to 2014 real world, but I have fooled them, and integrated a loop-hole. Like the contractual kind, this system of algorithms and code prevents the Recall machine- made by HOBART, from detecting the final stage of my immersion. That of the Sonic, Neural Orgasm that occurs when you, for example, save Princess Leia, emerge from the battle with Khan victorious, or as in my case, finally defeat Rutger Hauer’s existentialist replicant character from the single greatest contribution to science fiction on film since Georges Méliès’ human moon, yes you know the one: Blade Runner.

This will not be my last scene though. I am here, and to be honest, I am not going anywhere. Which is confusing because technically I am inside my own mind, with wires and shit coming out of every which way, all allowing for this Technicolor romance to finally occur in the first place, but there you have it: this scene is my habitable opus. And I am not leaving peacefully. They will have to send someone in after me. Someone braver than my character, maybe Schwarzenegger in ‘Recall, maybe Cruise in Minority Report. Either way, I’ll be ready.

I am digitally reborn as Deckard, the hunter of replicant’s. In the waiting room earlier where I chose this, many others were present. Most were Star Wars fans. So cliché. Humanity finally gives us a Disneyland in our cortex and everyone wants to be Obi Wan’s protégé. Not I friends, no way. I wanted what I have right now- a near-death scene. Every nuance of Deckard has been downloaded into my cortex. It’s like inviting another personality into you. Like being in The Exorcist , but pleasant, if you can imagine. I feel the crunch of his/my leather overcoat in the downpour. My hand, literally simulated so as to replicate the sensation when Hauer broke my trigger fingers a few moments ago. So here we are, after a running time of 1:55:59 (Extended Cut was only another few grand and really, how can you live the experience of Harrison Ford as Deckard without the deleted shower scene with Sean Young, am I right?). And here we are in the penultimate scene. The one I refuse to readily leave. They will have to drag me out of the machine, risk absolute and Total Recall, and that won’t sell more tickets to the Star Wars show, will it? No sir, not on my watch. I am going to watch Hauer cry his tears in the rain for eternity. Or until they find a less hostile-invasive manoeuvre to extradite me, which I hope is at least 4 years (the length of time all good or bad replicant models receive in the film). This is the scene I have chose to embed myself deep within.

This is my paradise, in all its moody, dystopic gloom. I am not going easy into the credits good light. I am going to rage, rage against the Director Commentary and subsequent dvd footage’s pale light.
He is leaning over the rooftop where we’ve had our final (forever to be re-lived for me) battle. I swear the replicant let me win. It is like at the end of the Matrix where, after suffering through an overly long chase scene, you get told this has been an infinite struggle that will play itself out again, all that crap? Except, if you can imagine, more efficient, more Dick-esque, more pure in its cinematic perfection.

He is hovering over the top of the building at the end of Blade Runner. This is not my last scene though. Hauer is lifting his head from the downward angle, he is just getting to the part about “all these memories” and my pre-set internal Orgasm Preventer (on sale at The Source for a thousand dollars and your choice of reenacting one of five scenes from a variety of films) and everything gets looped. The way Hauer’s voice breaks when he gets to “rain”, melds with the way the doves fly from the building as he expires. The Coca-Cola lights of a passing commercial ships invade our final moments, casting us in a rusty, neon-dint. The sound of doves again, the speech ends. Then, like the old Laser Disc technology of the early 90’s when a blemish or hair found its way onto the massive, over-sized Compact Disc incurred, the scene starts again. “I’ve seen..”, Hauer’s head now going down again, the music of Vangelis with its dated synth-pop hush overcoming, like twinkling stars being slowly dropped onto a landscape-xylophone, popping and dripping with keys held, keys lifted. This is where I belong. This is where every young fan of another world belongs. The perfect dream, the one you needn’t waken from, just let the record skip, let the hit re-play, again, again, again.