Moses Jones was on the subway. Half past, quarter past, quarter too ten.
Eleven more minutes and he would be home. Free and clear.
This was the second trip of the day, hour too hour home.
This oven in the train was on. Why there was an oven even Moses didn't know.
He could part the seas, yet couldn't tell whether he'd ordered pens with blue ink or black.
Aspiring to greatness, Moses felt overcome with the fact that his robes and scarf was now indiscreet.
Keeping all this to himself, he remembered back to his forty-year journey. This long haggard trip, a sensation of its own. Hunger indescribable. The towers and the sand. Camel spit. Hanks and goobs.
You could almost eat your own face but not die, the heat was so intense.
So being on the train was almost a Godsend, except for the fact that Moses knew there was no God. His own brothers father didn't exist. And there was nothing he could do. Nothing he could do about the fact that God didn't exist, and that he was a stranger in a strange land. Robert Frost, my ass.
Checking his watch, 8 minutes more. 8 miles. A mile a minute means the train meanders at a lamely pace. So much so that he knew he wouldn't be late, and his wife couldn't be angry. I mean, she managed to wait forty years, she could wait another four minutes. Hag.
But Moses didn't think that way, he loved his wife, with all her earthly possessions. No beard, confound it. Yeah, that’s the way. The way it seems to be. All this empty heartiness. So, so. Salty, crusty and full of juice that was Moses Jones.

He worked for a construction company in the city of Vancouver. Listening for the stars to come out, he rested on top of the heap, on the crossbeam, with his hard hat on, the one his father gave him all those years ago, the year of his 18th birthday, 23rd of May, May being the only month worth being alive in his mind, his mind being throttled by a goat the size of a pig and a monkey the size of Jesus. It was all good, and he rested peacefully, under the newly developed stars, there intravenous light penetrating his skin, giving him blisters, deep ruptures beneath the surface. A suffragette sort of thing to believe in, but hey, he could forgive for just one moment what it meant to be a man such as himself while under the stars, the unforgiving world meant nothing on this sky who's colours segued from turpentine red to crystal blue without an inch of give or take. This special night, which would live on in the minds of all the men in the world for the rest of their lives, it wasn't nearly enough for Moses Jones to overcome with his own infamy. The infamy of men lay bare beneath him, this building of concrete and steel. The way young lovers do, the words pouring out of the artists mouth, pouring into the Vancouver night sky landfill extraordinaire. Too many cooks spoiling the same broth, eternally, internally. Sitting on our own star, dreaming of the way we were and the way that we wanted to be. Sitting, smoking, not coughing, just relaxing and harbouring a thought that was neither his own, but was universally shared with all the star gazers of that particular sky. The dreams they would have. The children they would see. The lives of others, and the dreams of their forefathers. Did they care now that their paradise was lost? Did they cry for the deaths of the innocent? Did they beg forgiveness to the supposed Holy Ghost, or did they just take it all for granted and wish upon a star who's light wasn't even worth surrendering too? Was it all too grand for a simple layman and his hardhat and construction site? These clouds of ours, we created them, yet we leave them to die in the evening, reincarnate with infrastructures not worth happenstance. The cloud, the symbol, the divine intervention that is only possible from an outside perspective. This axiom of nature, simple yet obtuse. Obstructive not at all. Omnipotent forces in the shades of metallic grey, Moses knew it all.

He knew that Jesus was a Jew who lived in Israel, and the Pope was Italian, yet were somehow so closely linked. Of course Jesus was black, he lived in the sun. Race just depends on where you live. There is no internal link of people. If we ship all the whites too a sunny mountain region, within the next few generations the skin will darken, and the heights diminish. But by that time, the world would overturn and the views of men would be even less than what they are now. Moses Jones and the infamy of men would be all that return to the night. The night less armour, but still saturated in the goodness of it all. The desire to be loved and needed encompassed in all but one lonely stranger, a man who sits atop a construction site, smoking his holy pipe that has been blessed, passed down for generations of men in burlap sacks and monkey hats, too old to know the truth behind their own origins. It all made sense, yet the Jews and the kykes wouldn't believe it. They knew the saviour was a black old woman, who some fool wouldn't even let sit on the bus. And this mojo pin, sitting next to the three churches. I need to do the dishes, Moses would say to the other workmen, quite often saying it twice before they even recognised it was he who was talking, and not the dishwasher from next door. Ok. Wash them damn things, but first do a little dance you filthy mongrel. Dance? I do not dance? I am Moses Jones, and you sir, are a fool. A fool? I am no fool and you will dance or you will die!. Moses knew all about dying and travelling deserts in search of nothing, nirvana maybe but if he achieved this supposed state then wouldn't he be all blissed out in some roman numeral in the savannahs of Africa cum Argentina? So he danced the two step while thinking of a way to murder this man and his entire race without so much as batting an eyelid. Of course the fake God intervened with his ultraviolet lights and hemp, making this charlatan die in the thirty years after this incident. His family died too, much to his delight, so they spent the afterunderlife together, a cemetery apart but in the minds of each other and the children among them. So the dishes never got done and Moses fell asleep smoking his pipe and dreaming his diligence away. His superiority as a major miracle worker often got him befouled by his colleagues but it did not diminish his spirit. The holy spirit. The sandals upon his feet, his bald head, and the robes on his bodice were all part of who he was. Without them he was nothing. Nothing but pins and needles on a bards eyepiece. This pediatry fool. This harlequin foetus. This position of sleeping rectitude. Desire and intent were malnourished and the feeling never succumbed. Maybe it would eventually. But by then the tune would change, and the lyrics would mean more than a thousand pictures ever could.

Hopefully, for Moses, this intermittent change of subject wouldn't mean that his solicitude of harmony wasn't disturbed, but this didn't cease the fact that he had to work the next day, this constant reminder that he wasn't needed, but that he needed others to survive. He bled like a child. A child of mirth. Irrepressible feelings in the dark of the church, the stained glass leading him to think of other stains, the way he came into this clamorous world. Just a stain on a dirty old mattress, and an unfortunate mother of twelve. Disciples, no? So Moses took the fact that he was a bastard and suppressed it until he unleashed it upon an ocean, splitting its course into the facet of his hatred, of course the only reason other people got through was because he was so high that he thought it was his pain seeping away. There was no salvation, there never is. It's all so high strung and conscientious that it doesn't exist, and the pain of insomnia sets in, the not being able to breathe, your lungs too full of the crap that’s leaked over from your paranoid life. This android of paranoia, without a name but an identification code of #478392892, these numbers meaning nothing but a number on the phone. The chanting was abysmal, but so was the coffee, so Moses took it in his stride to play the viola and join the choir. As a boy, growing, he found it difficult to believe that his mother wasn't a stupid whore who was taken advantage of too many times. How many half brothers and fathers did he Have? He? Have? Not one but twelve, and it all made nonsense to the craziest disciple this side of the Mississip. The train had arrived, the day had past, and now he was dying on a bridge. This old jalopy, a harbinger had arrived on the bridge, and some men and a girl stepped out. They shouted, MOSES JONES YOU DUMB COON! COME GET SOME!, and Moses replied, Excuse me, but I am not dumb! And the shouting continued, until the small girl, who was albino, took out a shotgun and eliminated the air between them. The spray of bullets tore through Moses' torso, destroying his limbs and his esophageus. He sprayed, the bullets sprayed, and the air sprayed and heaved. The pain was insatiable, and took over his body. Moses fell to the concrete, trying to clutch with arms that weren't there. The girl with her stupid braces and glasses, saying that Moses was an impostor, and that Jesus was the only black bag lady she would take lessons from. This stupid bitch. She killed Moses, and what else, she replaces his arm with a stick. Torture was less excruciating than this. She took what was left of Moses that wasn't a part of him anymore, and threw it off the bridge. With a final, fuck you, she kicked Moses in the face, shot his stomach again, and cackled all the way to the car. She closed the door, and said "I hate you, you dumb nigger." Moses just lay there and died a million deaths, all his children and childrens children that would never happen because he was now dead. All the love that was left was gone, and all the love that would happen would never. Sopping with his own juice, this incardinine liquid, Moses couldn't part, seperate, replace. He coughed and shivered, naked in his moonlit death. You can't fight the moonlight, and he fell away. To a heaven without a God. Immortal? No.