Fool’s Odyssey 4

Fool's Odyssey

To read Fool’s Odyssey from the beginning, click here.

Chapter One: April Fool’s Day (Continued)

There’s time to think on a plane.

That’s an understatement.

There’s time to grow old on a plane.

To change your karma.

Take up knitting.

Plan the future.

Understand James Joyce.

But you don’t.

You just sit.


And one generation passes away,

and another one comes in its stead;

and the earth abideth forever, they say,

but you never can quite get ahead.


Water, water, water water–clouds.


The sun also rises, the sun also sets.

He’s short on surprises, and never forgets.

And always he riseth again. 


Water, water, water, water–clouds.


The wind blows to the south, then turns to the north;

he bloweth about, but he knoweth his course,

and always he knows where he’s been.


Water, water, water, water–land.


And that which has been is that which shall–




“Land, men!”

Wales, the green and rich and earthy,

the rolling, itchy, woolen scarf about the neck of Britain.


Lo and behold, I’ve contracted a cold.

Some ancient, foggy Druid cloud

crept in through an unseen crack,

or by means of mystic Celtic ritual,

mythologized, then materialized inside my throat,

cluttering up my nodes, and clouding my nasorium.

Like some

big dumb guy,

hangin’ around and hemmin’ and hawin’.

Idiot miner’s son,

secret bane of a proud, upstanding Welshtown man,

ruinous, illegitimate child,

reminder of one night’s sweet, departing faithfulness.

Child of lust,

child of Druid legacy,

vi-o-rus of mys-ter-y,

big dumb guy.


But just then, in the midst of my miserious ruminations,

the earth reached up and catched us,

grabbed us with her grinning grey







Oh, God!

O Hell!




Managed to get through customs

without them discovering my secret atomic molecule blaster.

And then,

carrying a shoulder bag that was never intended

to rest on shoulders so sloped and rounded as mine,

I walked down a long and white and porcelain tunnel

which eventually came to a train station

after first passing through the center of the earth.


Waves of fever passing over me:

Is this it?  Have I died?

Is this what it’s like, death?

Walking down a tunnel with a

big, dumb guy

following you?

Is this it?

Lugging a bag and looking for something

that may or may not exist,

and if it does, anyway,

how would a person know?

It might be lying.

Is this it?

To read Fool’s Odyssey 5, click here.

About mitchteemley

Writer, Filmmaker, Humorist, Thinker-about-stuffer
This entry was posted in Culture, Fool's Odyssey, Memoir, Poetry, Religion/Faith, Story Power and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

7 Responses to Fool’s Odyssey 4

  1. oneta hayes says:

    I also have dealt with those shoulder bags; you’re right they are not designed for sloped and rounded shoulders! Vanity, vanity. Where will your Solomon views take us next?

    Liked by 1 person

  2. theancients says:

    Wonderful writing…even more wonderful memory 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

  3. This is wondrous. I love it, as always.

    Liked by 1 person

  4. Pingback: Fool’s Odyssey 3 | Mitch Teemley

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