The Emperor (Pt. 4)

Upon His mountaintop, God is standing,
with bush's white flames engulfing.
Moses' mingling meditation:
the difference between war and salvation.

"A world built on faith and love," God requests,
"a world of peace and compromise is best."
With a stir in his speech that he knows is absurd,
the unwitting prophet delivers a new word.

But upon his descension:
a bleak and terrible tension.
From holy land to holy mess,
a land not even God could bless.

Six thousand miles from this hell,
pondering a battle he can no longer sell,
the emperor gloomily looks
at maps and dusty books.

"They hate our freedom,"
his tone now glum.
"Gotta fight 'em there,"
a blank stare.

A voice beckons,
lingers for seconds.
"Change course!
Remove your force!"

But the emperor, slouched on his throne,
shakes his head and ignores the tone
of his beloved savior's eager advice,
apathetic of the deaths, the weighty price.

Disappearing

I want to know
why I did what I did.
There are answers floating
in dark clouds that linger.
Overhead, from thundering skies,
thick red drops rain down.

In the name of this sin,
keep the madness within.
I am masked and unfamiliar
in a scene of clowns and actors.
No words are useful so
I'm disappearing into the abstract.

Safety is hiding
behind metallic curtains.
Tan, white, and red stripes,
I can hardly feel.
I don't want to be found;
don't come looking.

Who I am is wrong and
what you see is an impression.
Lock your heart away:
preserve it for a peaceful day.
I can only be what you see,
but the light between us manipulates.

***************************************************

I don't even like philosophy. I don't like the questions because they have no answers, no good answers anyway. They rattle inside my skull and have kept me awake at night on more than one occasion. I think it's good to question, but no one can tell you the answer. You have to get there yourself. But what happens when someone sets a trap? What happens when you set the trap? What happens when the path to your answers is skewed or unmarked? It's like an ant losing his trail back to the hole, the whole.

Nothing I say is said lightly and nothing I write is written without it being deliberate. I mean my words in every way they can be understood. I mean them when I'm truthful and even more so when I'm deceitful.

Figure out which one I am today. Seriously.

And if you find an answer, do tell. Because I haven't a clue anymore.

Yes, I'm in crisis mode. No, I don't want you to bat your pretty little eyelashes.




"It's hard to be wise and in love." (or something to that effect) Bob Dylan

With Conviction

Tell me something new
or old in a different way.
Tell me something real
or if it's fake: with conviction.

I'd rather hear a passionate lie
than the truth in a blur.
I'd rather know a clearer fiction
than my own meshed fate.

Touch me with your voice
and hold me in with your stories.
Touch me and I'll cry
or I'll laugh or scream or tremble.

I want to see your words
written out in scribbled etchings.
I want my god to know me,
but I know he has no reason.

Listen for the bullshit
in the whispers of your leaders.
Listen to a holy man's cry
in the remnants of a scortched earth.

I wish for clarity, but
in dark corners my bones do shake.
I wish for answers when
even my answers question.

Push me back
or over the edge.
Push and push
and I weakly give in.

I seek an understanding
of which no one can replicate.
I seek your taste:
love on the tip of my tongue.

***********************************************

If my words lie it's only because I have something to hide.



"I'd rather see you lie than see me believe the truth." The Miracle Of '86 Just Say When

Silent Movie

Cancer.

The word flashes in front of my eyes in greys, blues, and browns: like a bruise. It's growing inside me: this bubble, this rotting mound of poisonous body excrement. Dr. Kent's office begins to turn, swivel, and swerve. His diplomas float above his head. His mouth moves, but I'm locked within a silent movie.

Laura. My daughter. Her jaw drops. I feel her heart stop and her lungs deflated through the tense fingers that are intertwined with mine. The hairs on the back of her hand stand straight on end as they tickle my soon-to-be decaying flesh.

Doctors.

Treatments.

Hospital rooms.

Sterile white tile-floored rooms and sterile white curtains and sheets. Needles and blood. Poking and prodding.

My wife - ex-wife - discusses business with Dr. Kent. Cold and smooth as she always is. Chemo? Radiation? If there were subtitles I might know. She's undressing the fresh young doctor in her mind; I have no doubt. His lab coat opened and his tailored work shirt elegantly wrinkled. Immature baby hairs stick out from under the second button. The top unbuttoned. No tie. No class. Chump. This doctor who is ready to sign my death certificate.

Laura sits frozen still. Her eyes: glassy. She's my co-star in this movie we're trapped inside. For my wife - ex-wife - and the good doctor: it's all rainbows and flowers, singing and dancing, life. A fucking musical over there.

******************************

This really isn't anything. It was written during a monologue writing excercise in class today, but in this situation it's not really acting like a monologue. (For the few of you who read the 'private' short story, this is written from that main character's father's point of view from the scene early in the story where he's diagnosed. I think it's like the first paragraph of the second section.) Anyway, we were supposed to take a character we'd created and write a monologue for him/her and this is what I can up with. It was also an excercise in writing with a lot of detail. Figured I'd post it since I didn't post the whole story...even though this really has nothing to do with that story at all.

Excuse the poor grammar and sentence fragments. They were part of the assignment. They are to show his distance: to make things feel choppy. They are intentional, though a little painful for me.



"I have become a silent movie..." Elliott Smith Can't Make A Sound