Jarod Reactor

...and so, Jarod Reactor slipped silently into his big city, techno-colored thrill-seeker's apartment and, dropping to his hands and knees, proceeded to crawl across the mirror sheen of his cold, hard tile. When he reached the plush, white carpet, by the picture window of night, he lay flat on his back/on his back/on his back and made love to the only being who understood him (at least sexually): himself.
His mind had mutinied years ago, so it came as no surprise/as no shock/no revulsion/no celebration. The rhythm was there - the big drums. Pounding. Pounding. I am the one Jarod Reactor. I am the one.

She had been an alien. A small alien. Perhaps large. He had sucked her into his body and never looked back.

MOTION.

Days and awesome nights plunging mouth first into death and sex. He pulled on his star pants and spit in his hand.
Bathing now in his opiate, Jarod Reactor shut down. The world began the strenuous task of turning without him.
When two worlds nearly collide, life is on your side. Side step. Sleep with a big hat on. Leap about in a green space and wrestle grace from those who would hoard it.
Reactor! Shipwright of the happening, hard-bodied dream-spinners - slamming head-long into the gleaming spires of reckoning. A devil that never was. A task master divine. New age prophet - and yet, not.

MOTION.

Mock-heroic gestures, implying insight and action.
She speaks in his gut and he holds his hands over his ears and twists and silently screams.

MOTION.

He is chrome-plated and twice as hard as steel. His car has no wheels. He drives it by feel. He doesn't stop for long - this particular Reactor.
Crystal blue eyes stare down at him. In his mirrors are thousands - perhaps millions - of reflections.
Lightning quick and thunder thick - he grinds.

MOTION.

(Sugar sweet and so complete.)

And then Jarod Reactor - topsy-turvy, spiritually disintegrated and reprocessed - marched in a rectangular pattern - over and over - gradually losing the sharp angles until it was an oval path - stopping only when his entire being screamed for him to do so.
The room immediately filled with thickness and death's breath. He had expected as much.
Then he: dropped down, turned around, looked to the roof-tops and prayed a modern prayer. He felt singed and complete - jump-started and "neat." He was movement until there was no movement. Electric and fluid. Space-age Druid.

MOTION.

Pressure, pressure everywhere. His thumbs were red. It made no sense. Somewhere, women cried unceasingly. Sleek and graphic, his life slipped by.
This sticky reality slapped him with no real force. No obvious purpose. No notable effect.
He had conversed with a friend. He swam the bloody waters of "living" and dragged himself upon the lifeless shore.
Jarod looked through the bones to see the horizon. Some tiny voice inside of him screamed "LIFE" at the top of its pitifully small lungs.
"Yes!" he thought.
"Yes!" he said.

Reactor lived in a place that wasn't his home. There were tiny points of light, everywhere, over head. You take them for granted. One takes everything for granted.
Get real! Stop and look and listen to a world more fantastic than imaginable. Awe inspiring? It'd better be.
Strip, flip, stack the bricks and lift up. And up. Design and create. Don't let it defeat you. Twirling around under a big, white, hot sun, until you fall in a dizzy heap. "Yes!" he said.
We climbed that ladder for its "yes."
Say "yes" to "yes."
Yes.