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Field Of Swords

In the distance see them there
moving in increments bare
to the top of that hill
onward and upward, steadily they rise…

with the sun in their face, and grins in their eyes…

And we watch below the alter

Into the grassy plateau of souls….whispering of yesteryear’s
they march towards the point….

men from the east to the men of the west
The sky looks down and rumbles in knowing….and the earth trembles beneath the iron hoofs, and boots of steel
across the red river, and the skulls and ravens…they go…to the field of swords…

Look to your hips soldier…

take from your holster the venom from tongue….
for across the field…table…or room…comes your brother, sister, mother and friend…

and we plunge our swords together into the souls of our reflections…and fall together again again and again

onto the field of swords…..

feat photo by Rita Crane

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A Thousand Miles In The Sky

She sits nightly on her stoop
with her book and the orange juice colored vodka mix…always more vodka than juice…

Amidst the silence of the night and below the mysteries of a trillion stars that inspire the guttural cry of a thousand questions…heavy and swollen…

Jade, her jet black cat, saunters through the cracked front door.  He crouches between the crook made between her reading hand poised just below her downcast gaze.

Jade knows….

and rubs the back of his head against her right side. I imagine both to comfort himself, and to speak the language that only grief can hear.

The book is rich with cliches.  It speaks of other worlds, away from this one.  Polite answers lay between the pages, with raw truth, laid next to lies, the clean next to the mess of inconsistency and randomness.  Random acts of kindness, and memories of a dark yesterday.  Of love given and unreturned.  Of sour, scorching regret.  Of last words never spoken.  Of phone calls never made…

She slams the book down, looking away, and nervously flicks a lighter to the newton cigarette now dangling between her lips.  Sickened at the thoughts invading her mind.  Reminding her away from this place…of escape.

Her stoop, with her book.

The ice gently melting away into transparent floating icebergs.  Rocking and rattling within the tall crystal walls of her souvenir beer mug, with the words:

A Thousand Miles In The Sky

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Little Red Lizard

I told myself, like you told yourself.  This wouldn’t happen again.  Driving away into the night, we muttered the silent promises people do when they’ve reached the end of themselves.  When they have discovered that they really are not just one person.  That we all have to fight a war between the best of ourselves, and the part of us that continues to do us in.

I clicked the radio on, and then quickly turned it off.  I didn’t need another memory to haunt me later.  The last time I had driven away from regret I made the mistake of listening to some jazz station.  Now every time I hear smooth jazz, well, she comes to mind.  And not just her, but the lack of control.  I return to the scene of the crime against myself, in my mind, again.

Thinking you can wash your hands so quickly of memories stain, is one of the biggest lies told.  They don’t live like people do.  They stick to your skin, and smell up your clothes.  And hour-long showers don’t wash them away.
So it’s 3:23am, and although she wanted me to stay the night, I couldn’t sleep there.  I couldn’t awaken to the reality.

So I drive in silence,

to the shower that awaits,

the bed that is mine,

and the sunrise,

that I hope will erase the guilt and ….

Who is she?

Her name is addiction. If you have not met, I hope never to introduce you.  But maybe you already have met.  She is the one that hides behind your predominant self.  The one that allows you to hold its reality at arms length.  To just barely deny its existence, although, like a world wind, it crashes into your life, and whirls you away ever so often.

She is your guilty pleasure.  Your mess of pottage. The last puff of smoke before the lights go out. She is you…doing the thing you said you would never do….again.

She’ll make you trade Life’s love for lust…or passing up real food for a pacifier..casting your eyes from a horizons vision, to the short lived bliss of today.  She is your kindest pimp, and sometimes all you have.  She may even love you.  Smiling, while your heart grows cold, and numb to the seesaw of broken promises, while she whispers into the night that she is doubtful of tomorrows hope.

In other ways, he is the 800 pound gorilla in the room. Territorially invading your space, staring at you with those piercing and dominating eyes. Grunting you into submission.  Denying the option to be ignored, but daring you to confront its undeniable presence.  And when polite company come over, he/she transforms into that little red lizard, and scurries away, deep inside dusty corners of abandoned, cobweb invested attics, or uncleaned verandas.

To the world, you are a self respecting citizen of civility.  In control, and put together.  At church you leave him at home, knowing good and well that here, you do not speak of such things.  Here you sing loudly, smile widely, and keep you mouth shut.

But these are things that must be spoken of.  For they are true.  And a lie lived in secret will kill you.

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