Tuesday, October 3, 2017

An Evolution of Nations

Perhaps it always was the best choice to execute the traitor
for who cares what it is the turncoat had in mind when
he decided to betray those he was entrusted to serve
was entrusted to protect.   I guess the only assumption
that can be made is that he wanted something different
and it did not matter if the motivation was money,
fear, or idealogical shifts.   The bottom line was wanting
a difference of focus.   Be it with the gun at the back
of his head, or the allure of gold glinting in his eyes,
he strove toward that goal, and he ended up paying instead
of being paid.    When they put the hang mans noose
round his neck they could not give into the hindsight,
it was an absolute truth that the execution happen as
if written innately into the fabric of the earth or in the
essence of time and space.   Then it came to pass that
some of the people misconstrude his actions, and made
of him a martydom either by accidental coincidences or
by purposeful exploitation.  His actions though ghastly
were not exactly immoral, though the state deemed
them a travesty of the highest degree.   In the peoples defection
as their thoughts shifted, they took it upon themselves to stage
a coup and in the end moved themselves an idependent entity
strong enough to attack, and willful enough to defend.   Then
as all time does, it came to pass that a new traitor was bore
with radical notions, and this new idealogy born from
the thoughtful convictions of a traitor themselves
tied the rope round the neck of the new betrayer, and let him dangle
feet frantic at the gallows.   And just as though the gods
were sitting high above they shook their head, and chuckled
as the traitors young son sprouted a plan in his mind that
would evolve to a cause, a cause to a coup, and a coup to a new idealogy
so that all nations were born of the traitors blood,
and we all in turn are turncoats.

Monday, October 2, 2017

a reflection for this day

as i pulled into the parking lot on the far end of campus/ i was struck by the quaint way the museum of cars sat/ as though the world didn't exist/  all the commuters already inside/ the hidden headlights passing through the tree line in front of me/ just the quiet vehicles/ abandoned/ like the way you'd see the empty highways on one of the walking undead shows/ the music on my radio thumped out a bass tone against my leg/ the speaker present in the door/ i switched off the radio then/ turned the key to silence the buzz of my engine/ removing my phone from my pocket/ as i had observed the laws of the road/ keeping its screen backlight from averting my eyes/ my attention as i drove the twenty or so minutes to arrive here on campus/ social media pulled the tap of my finger/ drawn to it like a magnet/ a product of our time/ to keep in touch in bitter silences/ spiteful laughters/ reading up on the ups and downs of strangers once friends/ once schoolmates/ that once upon a time/  first thing to greet me/ at the top of the feed was a headline/ mass/ dead/ concert/ shooting/ vegas/ a quick google search brought me to the full story/  the usual suspect of words/ the cache of bewilderment/ avoiding the comment section i exhaled a breath for the unobserved frustrations i'd find/ an assortment of finger pointing/ instead of observing the unfiltered truth/ the perpatrator a radical of some sort/ just a man who should remain faceless/ a shadow/ who should fade away/ given no credence/ just a mist/ or a piss/ we can easily forget/ as it circled down the bowl/ into the sewage/ with the rest of the extremes/ regional concentration didn't matter/ a bastard/ made for the fires of hell/ a personal pet to lucifer/ one who should be prodded/ plucked/ double-fucked/ by the pointing end/  i tried to react/ looked to what words could be typed with my thumbs/ in what way my minor contribution to social media might be impactful/ maybe not/ though in the swirl/ storm of the political madness/ maybe a way to contribute a voice amongst the anarchy/ in order to say that madness is its own territory/ no more belongs to political parties/ idealogies than the moon belongs to a sovergnity/ all gods children/ perhaps/ though what have we become/ disappointments/ even the ones who swear highest allegiance/ misconstrude words/ the christ figure maybe dying for nothing/ if we can't even see light in our enemies/ just a digression/ this dog/ rabid/ blood-thirsty/ sorry sack of flesh/ he was someones son/ maybe/ but no more a man/ than an ant/ more a cockroach/ more a virus/ an infection/ so i will not see him/ as i do not see the flu/ he is but the gum on my shoe/ a nucance/ sitting in that car/ on campus/ letting a momentary fear ride over me/ like a deluge/ that thin tidal wave of thought/ a ectoplasmic wall/ what place is safe/ ignoring/ for what use is fear in life/ not for me/ i got out of my car and walked along/ a heavy psychology book weighing down my backpack/ about child development/ about children/ babies/ fetuses/ about life/ i get to where i need to go/ taking the quiz that i need to take/ about learning/ speaking to my mother of the barrage of news she will have to hear/ as my dad's morbid curiousity keeps him glued to the news of mass murder on tv/ a fascination/ asking why/ why/ why/ i responding who cares/ a beast/ a rageful stranger/ with a trigger finger/ a goal/ some madness/ maybe/ maybe not/ random/ perhaps/ perhaps not/ i look to correspond my answers to my quiz/ a vision of younger siblings/ little niece/ little nephew/ a vision of victims on the strip/ in night clubs/ around the world/ on trains/ humorist offices/ sure its all around/ not of everyone/ amonsgst those gone/ there are those who cared not to think/ found solace in forgetting/ of singing along to songs/ of the happy observance of their contemporaries/ dancing/ smiling/ sipping a beer/ the country singer/ strumming a guitar/ a drummer drumming/ not my type of music/ music though/ a universal truth/ perhaps the only one/ across idealogy/ across regions/ cultures/ across religions/ what is there to gain/ from this loss/ no business sense/ in this life/ not a business/ a contribution to madness/ then come the clowns/ blowhards on tv/ passing theory for wisdom/ seeing it all set out/ i open up my computer/ i want to write something down/ never able to full say what i want to say/ gotta let something out/ but what contribution are their in words/ still/ i find the address bar/ typing in the words to bring me here/i type/ as i pulled into the parking lot at the far end of campus...

Tuesday, September 19, 2017

Societal Tones

Withheld from the edge of knowing,
as though knowing were a disease,
as if showing the world that you learn is
a cause for a cataclysm of concern.
Withhold truths so that the liars cannot manipulate
that which it is they know but refuse to
acknowledge it so that they can persist
in their down grading attitudes in order
to perpetuate the myth of their own legends.

What do they do if they gather up the knowing
and parade it down the square so that passerby's
unwield their eyes, and hope to know what it is they can't,
but the uninitiated will clamor against the wall,
and deem the knowing as a form of class warfare
that no one will survive.  and in the midst of their
cascading tears they will dismiss the truths and the lies,
and little in a world of perpetual agony, because they refuse
to take a side.  

It is here at the middle where the outside grips at the wrists
and tugs and pulls and shreds the skin so that it peels apart like
a plastic bag.   No satisfying tearing sound only symphonic terror
that belts from the masses like the final rattle of a bleeting sheep
to old and fragile to be any use in sheering so sent off to slaughter
for being itself.   Raped by the blade and bleeding on the countertops
where its only a mutton of its former self.

On the other side, as in that plain of existence so ethereal God looks down,
he is shaking his head, hand over eyes, ashamed that his tree bore fruit that
no one cared to ingest.  Oh, they bit into the knowledge but they never broke it down,
and digested, and he had given them all they needed, but they saw that higher knowledge
as an affront to their faith, but no one stopped to wonder how it could be so when he gave us
that tree to bleed on.

So like the serpent in that oft forgotten garden the liars will slither around, and cast
the doubt in the middle of the pen where the sheep will be frantic and tip toe
out of fear of being bitten and poisoned to death.  the outside ones, all nose in the air, will take their knowledge
and they will horde it, for they superior in degree, with degrees will never hand over
the key to their city, and it'll be a pious little oversight to witness the birth of ignorance
not from the liars, or the sheep but from the sheer audacity of the wise, to never sprinkling it down
properly amongst the lambs.

Thursday, September 7, 2017

Boils and Sores - a short story

 Rachel removed her revolver from her holster and stood atop the ridge in a stance of particular disdain.   On the other side of the valley she could see the encroaching riders in a scattered line, kicking up dust as the neared.   She raised her arm and steadied a bead at the head of one of the incoming men, and prepared herself to shoot.   When she pulled the trigger the gun clicked with an unsatisfying ping and there was no expulsion of any projectile.   Save for the bullet in her head.   She readied the weapon back on her hip and made her way back up to her homestead and settled at her place at the table knitting the blanket she'd been neglecting for those last few moments of make believe.

Outside the sounds of the horses galloped into a steadily declining clop-clop until it was nothing but the sound of a rider heavy with fatigue landing upon the heavy earth.   There were three such sounds, each one bigger than the last, and Rachel kept her eyes on the knitted blanket as the heels of their boots clamored upon the wooden porch.   Then the door flung open in a bout of violence, and she smiled at her visitors.

"Go'dam Rachel, you ain't got no fire for the kettle.   You knows I like to have my tea, I'm parched."  The man with a rather large moustache smacked his lips a little bit to emphasize their dryness, and licked at his lips.   Behind him entered two other fellows, one a tall scrawny man the other giant in both height and width, he being barely contained in his trousers.  The mustachioed man appeared agitated at Rachel's non-response and so he sat himself at the table and removed his buckled hat, placing in front of him.   As he folded his hands, with elbows secure on the table he spoke, "Why don'tcha got no tea whisslin on the kettle Rachel?"

Her attention cast upon her work she muttered, "Didn't right feel like it Howard.   Don't feel like you woulda done felt like it either on account of how hot this here house has gotten.  Mine as well be in the fires of hell.   That's the truth."  She chuckled at herself.

Howard looked back at his companions who shrugged at him as if to say they didn't know what to make of such backward talk.   As if to say they didn't want to take no chances in chuckling or correcting the wife of their friend and employer.

"Rachel?"  Howard said as if to a child.

"Yes Howard?"  Rachel said as if to a ghost.

"Could you make us some tea, deary."

"I don't think I will."  She responded.

Howard chuckled and once again cast his eyes up towards his compatriots.   The fatter one chuckled, and shrugged, "Women.  Even my Peggy done say the darndest things when shes left alone and all."  He relinquished the volume of his chuckle until it trailed and faded away into an almost whimper.

"Rachel?"

"Yes Howard?"

"Why won't you make tea for me and my friends.  We be riding for days on end, our water run dry, our bones be weary.   Just a kettle of tea.  Please, deary."   His manner of manners was less polite and more demanding, he spit upon his floor and shot but a short glance to his partners, and returned and waited for a response from his dear young wife.

"No I won't.   There's kindling in stove, there's flint near by, and you got two hands to use, and eyes to see, your legs though weary can carry you 'cross the room.  With a scratch and a blow you can start your own fire goin'.  Easy.  Deary."  It almost appeared her attention was far more absorbed in her work, even letting out a smile, and what sounded like a pleasurable giggle at her neared success.

The lanky boy with the great stature and shifty eyes chuckled slightly, and Howard cast his eyes up to him, "What's funny boy?"

The boy swallowed a lump of nerves down his throat, and remarked, "She's got a wit.  Wit is peculiar, my fiance back home had wit, and her ma and pa had to lock her up in asylum.   Give her a good lesson in being human, good lesson in knowing her place.   She come out more ladylike, more quiet, I just think she got wit is all, its just peculiar is all, strange."

"Wit.  Right."  Howard spit at the boys feet, and once again turned to his wife who was picking at a stray piece of string protruding from her blanket.

"Rachel?"

"Yes Howard?"

"Make me some tea.   I'm weary, and sore, and now in more ways than one."

"I won't make no tea, I'm busy."

"You'll put down that useless mass or else I'll make you put it down.  We done been through this already."

Rachel's eyes shot up and she scolded him, and said in the calmest tone she could muster, "You touch my knittin' and I'll prod you in your fucking eye, pluck it and gouge it out then who will follow you, just a blind man riding."

Howard needed little less provocation and he reached across the table and with a violent hold he grasped the blanket and true to her word Rachel freed up her hand and tool, and used it as a rod to pluck out her husband's eye.   But, not to its complete freedom.   It dangled and dabbed against his coarse cheek and he exclaimed a line of expletive expulsions as he stood and backed up knocking over his dining chair.   He held a palm over the eye and moved it up to try and adjust it back into its socket, but it slipped and fell from his fingertips until his maneuvering loosened it so that it fell freely down his chest to the bottom of his frantic boot.  And then, squish.

"Seven hells Rachel, seven hells."  He was exasperated in his panic, and breathed in a spent heave.   "I'll kill you for that."  He looked at her properly then with that one attached eye and saw her with her revolver drawn and focused on his compatriots who had been attempting to draw their own weapons.

"I'm gonna give you an order or two Howard, an order or two.   But I ain't gonna be you, I ain't gonna use a fist or two.   I ain't gonna make you bleed, but I'm gonna give an order or two."  There was a quake in her voice but her hand was steady on her trigger, and her eyes focused, and trained on the lanky and pronounced giants.   Howard knew she could shoot.  He'd trained her, helped her, back when they were both younger, and foolish.  Back when he was kinder, and she was less wistful.

"You boys are gonna put your pieces on the table now.  Just right here, right next to me.  Right here, in front of me."

"You shoot one of us honey, the others will just drop you dead."

She turned her pistol on Howard, "Not if I shoot you dead, you're boys are dumb and dumbest, ain't got no two wits in them aside from what you show them they have.  I kill you they die anyway, useless as they both is."

The two men, giants as though they may have been looked at one another and at their boss and reached a consensus with their eyes that what she said was true.   They made ready to remove their weapons from their places.  "What's gonna stop her from shooting us all dead then," Howard tried to reason.  The men haltered their unholstering, and examined Rachel for a new confirmation.

"I just need y'all to let me leave her.  I just need your horses, but if you trigger I trigger you and you and you.  Do you get my meaning by trigger?"

The men nodded like infants.  And placed their revolvers on the table.   Then they slowly backed away as though that might impact the painful quality of a gunshot.

Rachel smiled at Howard.   "Now you deary.   Won't you deary?  Its on your left hip i'case you don't see it."

There was a thin layer of blood enveloping around Howard's fingers that covered over his socket, and a constant grimace of pain on his face, but there was also some level of admiration that his dear little Rachel wasn't so dear.   Fist to cheek, fist to stomach, fist across neck, and she'd never showed signs she'd been this strong, this fiercely animalistic, and he felt a twinge in his loins, and a thump in his heart, and he wanted her more, wanted her to attack him with all that ferocity but he'd make her bleed first, punish her first, take out both eyes for his one, and then mount her and take her as he would.  She had to know her place, had to find it amongst his submission, but damned if he didn't love her more than ever.

He lifted out his revolver and dropped it at his feet.  He smiled, "Get along bitch, ride as long as you can."  He raised his hands in the air, his momentary surrender.  Then she pulled her trigger.

Click.  Empty.   And she smiled.  And he moved on her, but she lifted up the fat man's shotgun and blew a hole through her husband so that his chest was a hollowed splatter of a former heart.  She shifted the gun on his mates, and she said, "Go on now, and be good to your wives."

They turned tail and ran without another second thought, if they even had had a first there was very little time to get it passed instinct.  They moved out the door and the horses soon followed into a faded gallop away from the foundations of that house.

Rachel removed her revolver from the pile on the table, and dropped the shotgun there.  She holstered her piece, and returned to her blanket.   A stray piece of thread protruded from the top and she held it in delicate palms and plucked at the thread till it loosed.   She turned it over in front of her and was satisfied with her work.   The smell of blood hung thick in that room as she laid the blanket in an empty bassinet.