Hoverman went to see the witch doctor. He opened his mouth and out

popped his whole crazy life, skin bones, and soul. From his strange

cranium flew the words that made up his life. Fire, fear, rage and

shame. Hoverman let loose a torrent of truth and another witch bit the

dust. He didn't see her burning. Hoverman was not to be tolerated. He

was out of control. He would have to find his own way out. Breathe slow

and let the seconds slip away. There are too many in the boat.

Hoverman dreamed of sunshine and the sea and lived a life of perpetual

shade and hopelessness. He didn't believe in anything but beauty....and

even that had it's price. Well, one thing was learned, a witch doctor

without balls, is just another witch.

It was midnight and the wind blew a chilly tune through the dying trees of

November. Hoverman gathered his supplies and settled down for the long

cold purgatory of winter. He didn't need much. A little food, a little

drink, his cat, a few friends, and a whole lot of smoke. Hoverman loved

to smoke. It made him levitate. It made him Light. He was born in

flame. When asked, " Why do you love the smoke so much?" he would

always say, " It's not the Smoke....It's the FIRE!!!" Everyone knew the

Man was Nuts. Everyone but Hoverman. To him it looked like the rest of

the world had missed the boat. They were all too busy to be trusted.

Hoverman took a stand against the hurley burley ambition of a willy

nilly world and pulled the covers over his eyes and clicked on the

magic lamp in his cranium as the snowflakes fell in Baghdad and a

carpet of red petals floats a madman with a grin, and a cat, a friend or

two, a sack full of boo as the blue breath of winter blew.

It was raining silver dollars and the fat moon smiled a crooked grin on

all the woebegotten souls wandering in wonderland looking for the night

to burst apart like an old pinyata and flood the sky with stars.

Hoverman was a born loser. The deck was stacked with knaves and jokers

long before he was born. Like so many of the human race his life's light

barely fickered. He had come to believe that the bad luck was his fate.

And so it was. Hoverman lived a nocturnal existence. He hardly saw the

sun. He lived a life of dreams and waited for death. There was nothing

else to do. He was here for no reason. As real as you. Stuck in a

clock of flesh and bones with no way out and no reason why. His heart

was too old to break. After a while his life became one solid night.

One day Hoverman decided that Today would be the Day. He would face

the Sun. He placed one foot on the floor and reached for the chain to the

overhead light....The globe around the bulb slipped off and exploded

against his skull into a thousand glass splinters. He slowly returned

his foot back into bed and that was the end of that. Some people were

born to sleep. Hoverman was one.

Hoberman woke and reached for his smoke and rolled out of bed to begin

the day. It was three o clock in the pm and he felt like he was late again.

Hoverman was never on time. At least no one else's time. He just

couldn't seem to make it in the jungle and jumble of seconds. Time was

all there was....and it was running out. Nobody seemed to notice but

Hoverman...and he was Always Late. He was late no matter what time it

was. He just didn't want to be on time for something that would steal

his life. Anything or anyone could do that. It was easy. Hoverman was

a very bright bulb in some ways, very bright. He thought he had it all

figured out. You're born in darkness you live in fear you die in darkness.

In the meantime you wait.