The philosophical ramifications of old age present themselves to me in a stark, and bitter confrontation with my neighbors. I live in a home for the elderly on Long Island. The morning hallways are filled with the jellied flesh of those who died in one of many pitched battles with the neighbor hood youths who will break a finger off to get at some dime store ring that one of the old hags stole from a catatonic during a marathon bingo game. Yes, there is entertainment the staff brings us outside during one of the countless over 90 degrees days that make up life after the apocalypse. Yes, the pale rider has started his ride through the sky of our lord. But back to bingo, we play in a field abandoned by all life, except the junk yard dog who awaits his last victim, before he falls into the heat and expires. With this cheerful ambience we play the game, a game without number since no could hear them being called out anyway. We are somewhat hard of hearing but no matter. The game is for the staff who watch the heat cook, and implode brains. The screams fall into the dead air, and people who never went out of their way to help any one during their youth, now beg for water, for relief. As the day wears on the surviors are brought back to their apartments to hunt for rats and the dead litter the ground. A sight not unlike a Mathew Brady photograph from the civil war. I crawl up the stairs and grab my bowie knife ready for a night of home invasion………….
The AGING FLESH OF REALITY