Imajica, Clive Barker

After I read the 900-page fantasy epic Imajica, my fingers ached from holding the doorstopper for so long.  I normally don’t get to the point where I can’t put down a book because I must know how it ends, but Imajica has the rare honor of doing that for me. 

If you like reading about sex, art, and fantasy then this is definitely for you.  An artist with a bad memory and a promiscuous woman get involved with a strange Dao-ish mystic who has traveled to Earth to find the only man who can reconcile the five dominions of space.  Now, you’re already thinking, wow, five dominions of space, Dao-phantoms, an artist with amnesia... this is really out there, but that’s an understatement my friend.  Wait until Mr. Barker actually takes you to these dominions, then you’re bound to have a cerebral hemorrhage.  Visually-striking is Imajica’s true genius and depth, the extent which makes you wonder how Clive Barker comes up with the things he does.  Their adventure gets more hypnotic, political, and intense as the story weaves its way up a trail to Yzorrdorex, a sort of capital of the dominions.  All Hell breaks loose when a revolution is born and mystical revelations grab the very essence of what it takes to elevate a book’s plot.  If you find the first 100 pages boring but you’re interested in the characters, stick with it because you’ll reap the benefits in the end with a very rewarding, epic climax. 

Judith, Gentle and Pi are three of the most mysterious characters I've read about.  Their complicated relationships are just as head-scratching as solving the Grand Unified Theory of physics.  I’m really surprised that Imajica hasn’t been made into a movie yet, but it probably will eventually. 

Indian Summer

Hey gunslinger out in the parched deadlands, 
The summer said you couldn’t leave, 
So stick around for a few more states. 
You may be damned to wander the Earth forever, 
But at least you could do it with me. 
The crows circling over skeletons on the ground- 
Fearless as you, flying through fire- 
Haven’t the faintest idea where you’re bound. 
All those Indians you drank with, 
And the cowboys you spilled blood upon, 
None of them heard the grunge of your gun 
Pirouetting on your fingertips as you shot your way 
Through the armada, silencing all poachers. 
In the dead of August you taught me to stop trying, 
For real treasures are not material 
And there was nothing to give a shit about anyway. 
Your morning groan was tattooed in black, 
Your evening laugh was hungry with God. 
Your voice echoed through the lobbies of casinos 
Where we arm-wrestled for ivory with lackluster losers, 
Gambling our lives away, up and down the strip, 
Each Joker laughing with us on the day of victory 
When we decorated the sky with a supernova of beer. 
You said hello to heaven after you died, 
I'll see you again on the fourth of July.