Archive for December, 2011

“La Mészáros Botiga” escrit par Ernestus Jiminy Chald

Posted in Uncategorized on December 28, 2011 by Peisithanatos Press

Yon maladivement otyły hombre jalutuskäigud binnen ein Carnisser Butiken brandendo një rozsdás fleisch couperet, ak comença szolgáló custaiméirí mortiga coups împotriva eu hoofden. Kiam niemand è lasciato stojący, ipse druppels hans mortigilo şi promenades poza . . . .


The Art & Poetry of Chinatsu Ikeda

Posted in Uncategorized on December 21, 2011 by Peisithanatos Press

head broken

“The Beaver of Mather Park” by Ernestus Jiminy Chald

Posted in Uncategorized on December 1, 2011 by Peisithanatos Press

I saw an old beaver in Mather Park this morning wearing an oversized stove pipe hat that was made from the skin of Abraham Lincoln.  Peeking out from his breast pocket — he was also wearing a rather dapper custom-tailored Ulster overcoat — I could see the tattered remnants of an old letter with faintly visible words scrawled across it in faded red ink: “Mi vendica . . . .”

“The Maestro of Moribundity” by Ernestus Jiminy Chald

Posted in Uncategorized on December 1, 2011 by Peisithanatos Press

I live every day as though it were my last . . . .

My mornings are spent on the telephone settling my affairs — canceling credit cards, putting a halt on mail being delivered to my box, working out the particularities of my funeral arrangements, and bidding tearful farewells to my family and friends (many of whom, inexplicably, refuse to answer their phones when I call any more).

My afternoons are spent editing the latest draft of my “Last Will & Testament”, and poring over old personal scrapbooks and family photo albums . . . reminiscing about my past and the rich life I’ve led.

I’ve heard it said before that, when a person dies, their entire life flashes before them. They relive everything — all of the experiences they’d had, people they’d known, places they’d been — in the blink of an eye.

Well, I’d rather relive my life at my own pace and on my own terms, choosing which memories I’d most like to recall and discarding the dross as I see fit. So I thumb through the story of my life one page at a time rather than being forced to digest it all in a single monumental instant.

My evenings are spent receiving the last rites. Father McClafferty arrives in his 1954 Silver Wraith and offers me the Eucharist as Viaticum. After he’s left, I stretch recumbently in my satin-lined coffin and reflect again upon the life I’ve led, the people I’ve known, the places I’ve been, the experiences I’ve had . . . then I close my eyes and cross my hands upon my chest, clutching an opal-beaded rosary in preparation for the blinding light that surely must be drawing near.