Calno John (Kelly) Soule "Seadoo" (prose)

This is me speaking. I have news.

The dream is a dance, a fire flinging dance on the sea:

There is nothing there beyond the land, nothing but water, the dancers, and me.

I float unguided on a surfing board, untethered and rolling free, recovering from overexertions at Aphrodisia, at this time pre-preoccupied with the draft for all-devils Halloween teams.

There, on the occasional horizon - the sea is a swell and a surge from a Barley-Moon tropical storm - I hear roaring voices:

“He's mine.

No, he's mine.

He's mine for sure because he belongs to me.”

It's pained old Satan, its shivering Shiva. And camel-gaited Muhamet.

It's unashamed Astarte and, perhaps, Hehaka, Lakota god of the hunt; Megaera, too, for justice and vengeance, I see.

Each contests the right of choice of Ron for his prime team:

"He's mine, I want him;

No, he's mine, I want him.

He's mine for sure, I want him, because he belongs to me.”

And far behind them, with rolling glee, a glad coloured Seadoo on a cross-wind tack, approaches, throbbing in the rhythm of:

“He's mine, I want him;

No, no, he's mine, I want him, I want him.

He's mine for sure, I want him, because he belongs to me.”

The old gods rant on, in heating dispute, winners each one wishes to be.

The Seadoo comes on; between the crests of the roiled sea - danger;

Threat blows in the wind of the higher sky.

Ron, the driver, master of the putt-putting sea-chariot, with compass and scope, with a Neptune trident and navigator wheel, and Ahab's eyes, the driver rides and rolls,

Awed and impelled to see this teeming verbal battle for player selection there in his salty sea-

No toss of the coin, not finger measure of a bat, no hazard of finger waving.

Just voices: as one voice rises, the others grow mute, a flow and ebb washing the shore;

Then, anew, another launches his bellowing roar,

“ He's mine and No, he's mine.

He's mine for sure and he belongs to me.”

The contest, the arguments I spy, are all about Ron, his full regard and smile;

And Ron rides his bee-boat into the melee of contesting gods,

Ignored by the verbal jousters for the choice of his talent.

And the god's call on:

“He's mine. No, he's mine.

He's mine for sure because he belongs to me.”

And Ron raises both arms and announces · resolution:

“ It's O.K., guys. I'll take all of you on my team.”

Calno John (Kelly) Soule August 18, 2005