Grandpa’s Cyanide

Redpill, IN. Wander 0028 CmE 

Or through the market, on the well-worn stones
He stalks until the dawn-stars burn away.

On Good Friday the Happy Hundred was delivered by a plump little red helper elf.  A bottle of 99 red pills that would cause one to feel no pain.  Dreamland.  And in a day you could return to as much as you could stand.  You could still visibly function as part of the scene.  But one identical pill took you to dreamland forever.  You know I mean.  Individual cells take decisions that are adapted to their internal state and surroundings, but how cells can reliably do this remains unclear.    We propose that heterogeneity and complexity in signaling networks have co-evolved to enable specific and context-aware cellular decision making in a multicellular setting. 

Henry had drained all the liquor in canteen and boredom after sitting on the spine of some goddam mountain on the Pennsylvania border.  Precise Zeiss weighed as much as the Sharps rifle and neither were fun to hump through the mountains without Shoshone Pony, who was nowhere to be seen.  Flash! Black Bonnie…  and she looked like a machine.  Just a flash in Henry’s vision, and his sturdy little horse was back again, grazing on mountain grass.  A cell can make a difference in the collective.  That is how the market’s well-worn stones (usually) work.  These quandaries and conundrums form a toxic cloud of cognitive dissonance blanketing America like a cosmic miasma of wickedness. 

Isaac’s blessing contained a poison pill, sure… but Esau what he saw log. Zz. 

Near Blue Ridge Summit, PA.  1863

And who will bring white peace
That he may sleep upon his hill again?

Henry mounted up and grinned.  Hello Jenkins.  You’re awfully far from your valley.  Hello Dutchman.  You’re awfully far from your river.  Guess you’re my prisoner now.  Like hell I am.  There is militia ahead of you and they not worth a pinch of shit.  But behind them- who knows.  Maybe a whole goddam army.  Your Western and Atlantic railroad pays me to follow tracks. I am a foreigner here and I don’t care about your goddam war.  Jenkins frowned.  I did not deserve this at your hands, and I confess I felt it keenly…I do not attribute improper motives, but only say the coincidence was an unfortunate one for me.

It was very early in the morning, but still dark when they reached the field. There were more than enough volunteers to bury the dead and to take the care to cover the blood that eventually was spilled in order to protect the farm. There was no trace. No torches, no blood, no haters, and no visible witnesses. Just a field of horse manure that had been made necessary to provide for by a traveling foreign military installation who would be dwindling in the area within the next few days. Their camp was in back of the main house. Daisy was happy to host them, though she understood not a word they uttered.  They made her feel secure, she said.

There was a flash of heat lightning, and Jenkins looking back- the dutchman was gone. 

He cannot rest until a spirit-dawn
Shall come;—the shining hope of Europe free

Grandpa never got to the bottom of it anyway: (the Compost modern Era.)