Close

These words you shoot off
softly with a sigh, sing
praises into the atmosphere
for the waste that is this year.
You never knew
that you're of the few
I see when my eyes are closed
tight when you're not ever close.
If seas separate
steal me a raft.
Or I'll swim the coast line
following your light.
House
or home
or land to roam
or foreign shores
or lips too far
to taste before
they're cracked and chapped,
I'll be there
just behind
in every step,
in every shadow
that you pass,
in every camera's
blinding flash.
Someday our dreams
will be the same,
but we'll still see them
when we wake.
Your cheek against mine
and a satisfied grin:
a future I can't wait
to begin.

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

These are some words that arranged themselves on a piece of paper.






"Maybe one day soon, it'll all come out, how you dream about each other sometimes." - Fountains Of Wayne Troubled Times

Anything More

Heavy eyelids, heavy hearts,
heavy minds that make their mark
are mired and mishandled
like that box you labeled "fragile."
Smile big for all to see
when all you see is me,
but it's fishy and it's fake:
drives the best of me away.
Instability explains this mess
and so there's no need to confess
that how I act is how I feel
and I want you oh so real.
If I weren't falling apart at the seams
you wouldn't know what to make of me.
My eyelashes brush your cheek,
but my efforts are too meek.
You're so much bigger than I
so why should I even try?
I'm an ant of your floor
that you've stepped on before,
but I love feeling you breathe,
watching your chest heave:
like if you inhale me now
I'll be part of you somehow.
It's the words I can't articulate
that seal my sorry, sullen fate.
Take pity and I'm yours;
I don't want anything more.

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

It's about trying to decide whether something's really worth the effort or if it's more beneficial to just remain a fly on the wall, just on the outskirts: stay put and lose nothing or dive in and hope for the best. It's about being stuck...but more by your own limits than the limits being place upon you by anyone else. It's about feeling like you could change and just not doing it...for one reason or another. It's about not believing.

I actually have no idea what prompted this. I found the first couple of lines saved in a note marked in September, but I don't remember why I began it or why I, apparently, abandoned it.






"This is the part of me I don't like..." Pablo Words For Free

Present

I got nothing but words
hiding up my sleeves.
They're tangled and tricky
and
temporarily
they leave my tongue tied
in dos
and do-knots.
So, you see me silenced
and stopped in my tracks.
You're a metaphor
that's gone too far.
Unfortunate am I
to be choked by a lie.
Wishful words whimper
inside the distance.
They don't bring you
any nearer.
They won't make you
true.
False starts
and finished ends
make up a history
as time bends.
But you would never see me,
not nearly as I see you.
I won't place you in the past tense,
but then I need you as my present.

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

It's about missing you one second, hating you the next, hating myself after that, and then letting the whole cycle repeat.

It's not about anyONE. It's a pattern.

It's about some other stuff too, I guess, but that's the gist.





"Blue house dress, fading fast with time and age: a metaphor for where I let us go. Will we rise again?" The Miracle Of '86 Two-Color Pattern

But It's Not Mine

I'm pretty sure I'm left for dead
beneath a swirling ceiling fan.
I'm cold as you
and turning blue.
That line I can't forget
sings somewhere in my head,
but warmth is just a memory
and love is just a fantasy.
Heart beats slower now,
breath breathes light and futile.
This room becomes a grave:
so still as I lay bleeding.
A crimson carpet drowns me
and imaginary voices chide.
You lied: said I was strong,
but still my will can't save me.
My fading thoughts drift far
and I see you like you're here.
In that brightened doorway,
I can almost taste you.
Life flashes, but it's not mine.
Three.
Two.
One.

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

I had a line in my head for this poem, but I forgot it. Then, I got another line in my head and ran with it. This is a fictional room and a fictional suicide. Don't go all nuts and call 911 on me.

There's this show "Fringe" and in one episode, they hypothesized that the last image you see before you die gets frozen in your memory, behind our eyes. (This is a totally fictional show, for the record.) This is sort of a spin on that idea except it freezes on whatever image the mind drifts to last rather than what's actually there. I guess, if I died tomorrow, this is what I think I would think about before I was gone.





"It might be tomorrow. You can't tell the minute or the hour. Well, you just will get ready: you got to die." Willie McTell You Got To Die

Only In My Head

Shadows mark a passing phase,
like the lines on my arms
and the circles under my eyes
and the frog in my throat.
There's a road I can't quite
force myself to cross
without a hand to hold
or a guide to follow.
Or maybe it's a fork in the road
and neither path is cleared.
You use silence as an art
with your arms like a brush
and your eyes like a voice
(which say everything).
But my eyes are shut
so I don't hear a thing -
like always - but words are clearer
when you say them, anyway.
Missteps and mistakes
and misunderstandings along the way
and all the things I swore I said
(but only in my head)
amount to scribbles on a page
which you would never read anyway.
Words are safe when eyes can't see them
like hearts are safe enclosed behind ribs
like I am safe when I lock myself up.
Oh, how I want to be so very unlocked.

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

This definitely just came out of my ass as I was sitting here mentally kicking myself for any number of missed opportunities. Parts of this I really like, but parts I still think are really weak. I didn't want to mess with the flow, so I just wrote what came out with little interference. Not sure it was a good choice, but that's how it came out.








"I keep feeling my eyes close shut. You know I love you sincerely, but now I just wanna be still and not move and not think: be still, be still, move and make me feel ill." Heatmiser Still

If God's On Our Side

Preface:

This story was originally written for my Political Theory independent study in the Spring of 2008. It was about half this length at the time, though. Now, it's more or less how I wanted it. As always, there are probably formatting errors as well as typos (spelling AND grammar), so please let me know if you catch any!

"If God's on our side, he'll stop the next war." Bob Dylan With God On Our Side

"For when it's time to kill, who needs a reason?" AA Bondy Against The Morning


* * * *

She anxiously picks at the dry flecks of skin the winter air has stripped from the rest of her body. They fall to the ground as her jittery legs dance in place. My eyes engulf her as if I’d never seen her before. She doesn’t know I was in first class. She doesn’t know to expect me to be among the first to descend from the plane into the arms of a much missed and beloved mother, father, spouse, or child.

“Richard!” she shouts, forgetting how badly the backs of her hands need lotion.

Clara jumps into my arms forcing me to drop one of the gigantic knapsacks labeled “MARINES” in letters that seem almost bigger than her entire body. She is warmth. I know she has me in her arms as tightly as she can bear to squeeze and I struggle not to hurt her within my own arms. Her lips on my neck, and suddenly I am no longer in Afghanistan. Suddenly, I am home in the arms of the only person who has ever seen me cry, heard my stories, and knows my nightmares. I won’t let her go. She has to be the first to step away and I am in no rush to feel her hands remove themselves from my back. Lips mischievously travel further north and a warm tongue massages the insides of my mouth. God, it’s good to be home.

“Where’s Abby?”

“I left her with my parents. Everyone’s there, waiting for you. We didn’t want to clog up the whole airport,” she explains without removing that brilliant smile.

I grab my bags from off the airport linoleum and follow my wife of six years in and out and up and down every curve in the airport until we finally arrive at the car. It still smells like baby even though my daughter is now five. So many nights with bombs going off in the distance, I worried if my little girl would even remember my face the next time she saw me. I knew she’d know my voice, but what if my appearance jarred her? The concern haunted me. Some nights I never slept. This is information Clara doesn’t need to know.

* * * *

“WELCOME HOME, RICHIE,” shouted the miss-matched group of hooligans who greeted me at the entrance of my parents-in-law’s home; their guns at bay with seemingly sincere smiles smeared across their faces.

I don’t call them hooligans to imply any disrespect. Quite the contrary, I am proud of my mongrel family: those by blood as well as those by marriage. We are a large, mixed family. My wife’s father in Nigerian and her mother: Puerto Rican. Clara is an English professor over at Monmouth State, a writer, and occasional journalist. Her family is about as liberal as possible, borderline Socialists. My father nearly killed me when I first introduced Clara, not because of her heritage, but because her mother was known for making noise in the local media. Nina, my mother-in-law, is an outspoken women’s rights leader. She often campaigns for pro-choice candidates and is pretty famous in her own right.

Similarly, Clara’s father (Tombari, or Tom for short) is a journalist who, until he retired, dealt with economic inequalities and homeless immigrants. He remains an important figure for immigrants’ rights, but he no long writes articles about his work. Most of his time is spent volunteering at shelters and raising money. He is quieter than his wife, but by no means less influential, especially to the people for whom his presence has meant life or death.

My family, on the other hand, is…well, very different. My mother had and raised four children while my father worked in the next town over for Ford. I went to church every Sunday, coming up, and for a while I thought I might become a priest. Nancy, my mother, stayed at home with us and helped us with our homework every night. She was always baking. The house always smelled like cake. She and my three sisters spent most of their afternoons in the garden once homework was out of the way and while dinner was cooking in the oven. I’d help by swimming around in the soil in place of a more refined shovel.

My father, Joe, owns six guns. One, legend has it, is a Civil War piece he inherited from Grandpa Leo. I don’t know if the story is true and I never cared to ask too much about the gun. All I know is Grandpa Leo was born in Georgia. If it’s true, you do the math. I decided when I was very young that I didn’t want to know the history of the weapon. I was intrigued by the mechanism as a boy, but I realized I was interested in most mechanisms. That’s how I became a mechanic and an engineering specialist for the Marines.

Dad fought in Vietnam. I suppose I never really questioned my future. I’d go to school for as long as I could stand it and then I’d enlist. Mine is a military family. It was never a discussion, nor was I unhappy to sign up. I felt like I had reached my telos. I was sure that America was a worthy cause, one I’d willingly and happily give my life for because she is the definition of freedom.
Then, I met Clara.

“Richard!” my mother shouts and is the first among the familiar faces to grab my cheeks with her heavily lip-sticked lips.

I give the appropriate length hugs to both my parents, but I can’t stand it, “Where’s my little girl?” I finally ask.

“Right here, daddy,” Nina announces smiling, holding her granddaughter tightly.

Nina hands Abby to me and the little girl’s face lights up; she remembers: “Daddy!” she says through her baby teeth.

“Hey, baby,” a smile eats my face and I kiss her nose.

“Cake! Richard, please tell your mother to cut this thing already! The smell is taunting me!” Tom jokes in his exquisite and exotic accent.

“Yes! Cake, please! Feed me something that isn’t served from a metal pan.”

* * * *

There’s sand up my nose and in my eyes and pounding my eardrums. I can hardly see a goddamn thing. Wind rushes and whistles, stings. It’s like a sand blaster aimed at your entire body; nothing is safe. The truck is our only guard. Six guys huddled behind one big truck and bullets firing from an unknown source. I can’t hear anything except wind and bullets. I know they’re talking; I can see their lips move. And then.

“Man down! Man down!”

“Jimmy!”

Gasp.

“Rich, what’s wrong?” my wife asks lying next to me.

I shake if off, realizing I didn’t even know a ‘Jimmy’ in Afghanistan, “Uhh, dream. Sorry.”

She leans over and massages me chest with his hand as she kisses me. God, it’s good to be home.

“It’s funny. The whole time I was over there, I dreamt of nothing else, but being here and now that I’m hear, I’m dreaming of being there.”

A little concerned she asks, “Not because you’d rather be there, I hope,” and another kiss.

“No, no.”

Clara twists herself around, “6:23. I was going to have to get up soon to get Abby ready for school anyway. Eggs or waffles?”

“Eggs,” I smile.

I watch her climb out of bed, her tiny stature, her stick like arms reach for her robe and she steps into her slippers. She disappears from the room without making a single floorboard creak.

* * * *

“No, no, no. You never leave a battle un-won. I don’t know what those goddamn liberals are talking about. Get your ass in battle and see how easy it is to win a war. These thin skinned politicians think these people will all just kiss and make up! It’s not gonna happen. They have to be taught to be civilized. These people need to be told where to take a shit!”

“A lot of them are actually highly educated,” I peep in while my dad goes on and on with his buddies.

“Maybe a lot of the ones you were around. You were an engineer.”

“I was still in combat, Dad. I mean, look, they need to be taught to organize and they need to learn loyalty to a democratic government, sure, but their intelligence isn’t the biggest problem.”

“Oh, here we go. This is his wife’s jargon: ‘We need to hold their itty bitty hands and ask them politely to not blow each other up!’ That’s pussy shit,” my dad loves impersonating my wife and – I didn’t tell you this – but he does a really good job of it.

"I’m not sayin’ that either. They need jobs, though. They need electricity. They need to see that living in democracy is better than the alternative and I’m not sure we’ve shown any of them that yet: not in Afghanistan and certainly not in Iraq.”

“Weren’t you in Afghanistan?” George, one of my dad’s buddies, asks.

“Yeah, but I had friends deployed in Iraq; we all kinda got spread out.”

“Anyone you know workin’ Abu Ghraib?”

“God, no. Thankfully. It’s a big war; we don’t all know each other. I just hear shit from friends. Emails get through. Pictures. I saw one of this little kid. Dead. It was an accident, but…still. Like…what are we doin’ over there? Are we trying to give them a government they can run with a military they can control or are we just exterminating them?”

George takes a long drag and nods his head. My dad shakes his head in disapproval. I know I’m too soft for him, but I can live with that.

“How’s your little girl,” George asks, his eyes still examining my face intently.

“She’s great. She’s perfect. Her mom did a great job.”

“Abigail, right?” I nod. “As is Adams?”

I laugh, “No, not Adams. Clara had a younger sister who died; her name was Abigail, so it’s for her sister. We call her Abby, though.”

“Has she heard Abbey Road yet?”

“No, not yet. I want to wait until she’s older for that. I’m not sure a five year old can totally appreciate The Beatles,” I laugh.

“As long as she ain’t listening to any of that ‘Wiggles’ shit,” my dad puffs.

* * * *

“Jimmy!”

“Jim’s down. Jim’s down!”

“Woah, woah…drag him there!”

“I got this side. You cover there!”

An ambush in a sand storm.

I grab a helmet from the truck and toss it over, then one for me. I can’t see who I’m shooting or even if I’m shooting. Wind and bullets. It’s all a blur. I can’t make out shapes: not of people or guns; I can’t even see the fucking truck.

There’s a haze. There’s a spot in my vision; the sand is thick in the air.

“What is that?” I ask, but no one answers. “Hey, hey…what is that!?”

I don’t know these men. I can’t see them or hear Jim’s cries anymore. All there is to hear are disorienting winds, even the bullets are muffled. I know there’s combat if I could only see it. The dark spot in my eye line inches closer as if I’m about to be eaten by a sand blob.

Gasp.

5:48.

* * * *

Abby sits in her grandma’s lap. Nina brushes her hair back.

“Clara should be back soon and we’ll start dinner. Would you like a drink. A Brandy perhaps?”

“Oh, no, no. I’m fine, Nina. Thank you.”

“Alright, well, you just say the word. You know, Clara’s been working on this story about women refugees. It’s taking a lot out of her, I think.”

“She’s hardly mentioned it to me.”

“Well, of course not. She doesn’t want to bother you with it,” Nina puts Abby on the ground. “Go see how Grandpa’s doing with the sauce!”

Abby runs into the kitchen with her two braids bouncing behind her.

Nina leans in and I meet her, her voice is low, “To be quite honest with you: I don’t think she wants to worry you about anything right now except sex! It was a long tour for her too, yanno,” and my mother-in-law laughs.

Most men would be concerned, if not entirely creeped out by this exchange, but that’s Nina. She hardly gets a sentence out without alluding to sex and she’s a truly beautiful woman in her own right. So, I laugh because men always laugh about sex.

“Have you been…you know…able to perform, officer? Sometimes PTSD can effect…”

“Performing fine, Nina. Thanks for your concern.”

“Listen, I don’t know how sympathetic your father will be, but if you’re experiencing any sort of depression, you better tell someone. Tell me. Tell Clara. It’s been hard on her, having you away with Abby and all. She needs you here, totally here…so if you’re not…”

“I’m fine, actually, Nina, but thank you. I was worried a little about that too. I don’t think any solider can say he doesn’t fear coming home and feeling depressed about it, but I’m feeling great.”

“You’re not jumpy?”

“No, not particularly.”

“Feeling anti-social?”

“I’ve been your veritable social butterfly the last couple days.”

“Sleeping well?”

“Sleeping…” I nod.

The jingling of keys can be heard from outside the door.

“Mommy!” Abby squeaks and runs to the door to greet her mother.

“Sorry, sorry, I’m late!” she says, carrying a gigantic bag with wrinkled papers sticking out from under the flap.

She drops the sack in a huff and picks up Abby. She is glistening.

“Finally!” Tom jokes, slowly walking out from the kitchen. “Wash your hands. Dinner is served.”

* * * *

“What the fuck is that!?”

it’s all in the distance; it’s all out of my reach. It seems like miles away. The sand blob moves closer.

“Stop,” it says, only it doesn’t.

It’s not human, but it’s not earth either. It has neither form nor language.

“Stop?” I choke out through sand and dirt.

Gasp.

“That game must be riveting,” Clara jokes, walking into the room with a bowl of chips in one hand and Abby slung around her other shoulder.

“Mets suck,” I reply, a little disoriented.

She takes a seat next to me on the couch. It’s the modern Rockwell portrait of a family: big strong man with his darling, perfect wife and daughter, watching baseball on a Sunday afternoon. It’s a snapshot of perfect unity in which everything truly is as it should be. A father at home with his little girl and feeling both love and admiration from as well as for his wife: is this not exactly what every human wants out of life and family? Isn’t this the real American dream?

Yet, in a room so far from death and destruction or anything resembling the depths of hell, I feel coming upon me the eerie feeling that hell isn’t as far as Afghanistan, like it’s creeping up under my home’s own foundations. I swear I can see it seep in through the window screen and air vents and it leaves this sinking feeling that once felt, you forget how to feel anything else.

“Yeaaaah!” Clara, excited. “That’s four to one now, sissies! Eat that!”

Abby, on her lap, “Yay, Mets! Yay, Mets!”

“You taught her well,” I kiss my wife.

It’s not something about which she should feel concern. I’m sure reoccurring dreams about war and sand blobs are perfectly normal.

* * * *

“Stop,” it says, or it would if it had a mouth.

“What are you?” wind whips and whirls around my face.

The sand blob hovers in my general vicinity. In this storm, I can’t tell where it begins or ends. I can’t hear its voice, yet I comprehend its language.

“What good is this?” the blob asks.

Around me, fellow soldiers move in slow motion. Jimmy is being attended to, but blood still flies everywhere. Two others duck behind the truck with weapons, shooting at someone they can’t even see. How informal war has become, when you can shoot at a target without ever even making eye contact. The charm of a good sword fight: you got to know your enemy before killing him. You’d have the chance to turn back as you dance around each other, eyes stinging your heart and soul. The decision to kill then was, truly, a decision, not simply the pull of a trigger to take a life you never felt, but would now touch and change forever.

“This is war,” I say.

“I write history…and every line is about what I don’t want to write about anymore,” the blob, its essence, communicates to me.

Confused, I squint, desperately trying to see behind this swirling tornado of sand that seems to want to tell me something, but clearly cannot: it’s sand and sand, in case you missed that day of science class, doesn’t speak; I must be going mad.

“History? What are you?”

“I write history…”

“Are you God?”

“I create and destroy. I am no more or less than you. I set in place circumstances and help to deal with the consequences.”

“You are God, then?”

“What good is this? This death? Whatever I am and whatever you are: does this help either one of us feel safer or live happier? Centuries of death suffered by men because of men. If there exists a God, do you think he would allow this to continue much longer?”

“So, you’re not God?”

“When all humans are gone, the Earth will remain and she’ll recover and new life will form. This planet and this circle of life and death will continue regardless of whether your species is here to defend it. Humanity could be just a blip in her memory. So, do you envision a future with or without mankind?”

“With, of course, with, but…”

“Then men must find a way to live among men. And men must find a way to live within their means on this earth.”

Bullets wiz around and I see another one of my men collapse. Everything except the wind and my body are still stuck in slow motion, but – for some reason – I cannot compel my body to lunge forward to help my fallen comrade.

“What does that mean?” I try, but when I turn my face back around the sand blob is dissolved.

* * * *

“Did we know a Jimmy?”

“Jimmy? When?” Andy, a Marine with whom I served, asks.

“Afghanistan, I guess.”

“Last name?”

“Uhhh, I don’t know. I mean, I don’t even know if he existed.”

“I don’t remember a Jimmy. What’s this about?”

Andy and I went through a lot together from boot camp to war to reuniting with our families after far too long away from home.

“I don’t know. I thought maybe I knew a Jimmy over there,” I respond vaguely.

“More coffee?” the waitress asks.

“Yes, please,” Andy replies.

“Please,” says I.

The waitress fills both our cups and leaves some extra cream on the café table. It’s a gorgeous day; everything’s in bloom. Andy stirs his creamer into his coffee with a particularly peaceful smile etched onto his face.

“It’s so nice to enjoy a cup of coffee without having to worry about pissing in the sand somewhere later on,” Andy laughs. He finishes preparing his coffee, “So, this Jimmy guy…you got a crush on his or something?”

“No,” I laugh. “I’ve been having this weird dream. Some guy named Jimmy gets hit. I think he lives, but he’s the only person in the dream who has a name.”

“You dreaming about Afghanistan?”

“Not really about anything in particular, but – yeah – it’s set there, in like a sand storm.”

“Well, yeah, we became real acquainted with those…”

“But it’s weird because the dream isn’t so much about war or battle as it is…I don’t know…like…about life.”

Andy looks confused.

“There’s this…thing…that appears,” I say in a low voice.

“A thing?”

“Like, it looks like it’s sand just swirling around, right? And there is sand swirling around, but this is like contained. I don’t know…it’s a fuckin’ dream. Look, it talks, but it doesn’t have a mouth. So, I just hear and feel what it’s trying to say without it actually saying anything.”

Andy looks more confused.

“Okay, I know it sounds nuts and it is, but it was just like this nameless, shapeless entity and it was trying to warn me.”

“About what?”

“The end of the world. About how we treat each other and that if we don’t shape up, everything we have…all we know…could get wiped out.”

“Woah, dude, that’s heavy shit.”

“And this thing that was talking to me…it – like – it was talking about if there’s a God, He might not let this go on much longer. Like, humans. Like, we might kill so many of our own and piss God off so much that God just goes, ‘Yanno what? Fuck it! Gone! Poof with humans.’ And, like, yeah…maybe he would. I think I’d be getting pretty pissed about now if I were God too.”

“Sure. I mean, theoretically He created us, but we’re destroying ourselves.”

“Dude, did you ever think that, even though we were defending our country that, maybe, there was something about what we were doing that wasn’t totally moral? I mean, I know we were following orders, but so did the Nazis…and I’m not equating us to Nazis obviously, I just…I wonder if it’s ever worth it. To kill.”

“Yeah, man, of course. I’d think about my boy and my baby girl and I’d think, ‘I hope they never find out about this,’ and that’s like a test for me, man. If I’m thinkin’ about doing something, I think about if my kids find out and whether I can live with them knowing about it and if I CAN live with them knowing, then I think it’s an okay thing to do. So much shit went down over there I hope my kids never hear about.”

“Right, exactly! And, like, what if it’s the same with God.”

“God’s all knowing. He’ll know shit whether you want him to or not.”

“But what if he just creates the situations and wants us to work ourselves out with his help…not like we’re just pawns.”

“You think God’s telling you to end the war, end killing, and save mankind? That’s an unfair task to put on one man’s shoulders, dude,” Andy laughs.

“I know, I know. And I’m not sure it’s God or if it’s just…like…me.”

“Lemme get this straight. You think you were talking to yourself in the shape of a sand creature in a dream about the Apocalypse?”

“Okay, well, when you say it like that it really does sound like I’m fucking losing it!”

“No, dude, it really doesn’t sound any better even if you replace yourself with God…I just wanted to know if I understood you right,” he laughs.

“When we were over there, I hated it. I never really understood the mission or the point. I feel like the stakes need to be really high to go killing people. War almost seems like acceptable mass murder, even genocide. I’m proud to protect my country, my family, but I don’t feel like that was ever really what we were doing.”

“So, you don’t want your girl to know.”

“I don’t want Abby…or Clara…to know what it’s really like over there. And, is that moral? To hide it from them?”

“You askin’ me or your sand monster?”

“Har – fucking – har. It’s just been rumbling around in my head is all. Should I take this seriously?”

“I don’t know if God’s talking to you or not, but – I mean – what it said to you is true. We can all kill each other and burn in hell and it’s our own fault.”

“Do you believe in God?”

“No, man,” Andy says. “Not really. Why…do you?”

“I did.”

“But?”

“But…I don’t know.”

“Do you really think God’s talking to you?”

“Now, if I saw ‘yes’ are you really ever going to look at me the same again?”

Andy chuckles.

* * * *

“When all humans are gone, the Earth will remain and she’ll recover and new life will form. This planet and this circle of life and death will continue regardless of whether your species is here to defend it. Humanity could be just a blip in her memory. So, do you envision a future with or without mankind?”

“With, of course, with, but…”

“Then men must find a way to live among men. And men must find a way to live within their means on this earth.”

“What does that mean? WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?” I shout, but my words aren’t audible.

Jimmy still bleeds. I can’t see him, but I see his blood. The only things I can see are sand and blood. My comrades are lost in disorienting winds. A bullet could hit me and not only would I not hear it, I wouldn’t see it. I’d be dead before I knew what hit me.

“WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?” I try again, but the sand blob is lost: spread around Afghanistan or maybe drenched in Jimmy’s blood.

Gasp.

My eyes shoot open and sweat pours off my forehead in large drops to the sheets. And then I see it.

“What are you?”

The sand blob now stands in front of me, several feet away n my bedroom with my wife sleeping soundly to my right. The sand blob communicates nothing.

“What. Are. You?” I ask again slowly and softly so as to not disturb Clara.

The blob moves closer and – with what almost appears to be an arm – begins to reach out to me. Almost involuntarily, my arms rises out from under the sheets and my hand meets the blobs. Upon impact, the blob disintegrates and disappears into the carpet, not leaving a trace.

All the clocks in the room shout “4:21AM” at me. I know I should sleep, but what use is that when I’ll only wind up back in a war zone.

* * * *

“You look like hell,” Tom, my father-in-law, lovingly informs me. “She keepin’ you up all night?” he nods to Clara with an elegantly mischievous grin as she exits the living room to meet up with Nina and Abby. Nina insists on giving Abby piano lessons, which I don’t mind except it’s becoming increasingly obvious that my perfect daughter may be tone deaf. Or just five. The piano can be heard throughout the house crying every Thursday evening.

I give a half-chuckle, which acts like an answer to his question, but really isn’t. He accepts it and moves on.

“Have you heard anything from friends still in Afghanistan?” he asks.

“No, nothing yet. I’m thankful for that, though. Right now, I just want to be home.”

“Yes. Home is a much better place for a young man with a family.”

“Yes,” I smile. “Yes, it is.”

The room goes silent except for Abby’s lesson in the next room until…

“Tom, I’ve never asked you, but I’m curious. About Nigeria. Growing up there. Would you mind if I – ?”

“Go ahead,” my father-in-law answers, rocking back in his chair.

“So, when you were young, you lived under British control, right? Nigeria was part of the British Empire?”

“This is true. I lived in the Southern region on Nigeria which Westernized much more quickly and also inspired me to, eventually, leave the country for America.”

“Did you care that you were under the rule of a country so far away from you? A country out of touch with your needs?”

“Well, look, I was young. British rule was all I knew because we were already under British rule when I was born. I was in my early twenties when we gained our independence and I left soon afterward, so I’d lived a great part of my life that way. I was aware of it and I didn’t think it was right, but for me personally, it may have almost been a blessing.”

“Because it eventually brought you here?”

“Partially that, yes. But also because of the education I received. Look,” he leaned in, “I cannot say that British colonialism in my country was a good thing, but I also cannot say it was the worst thing for me personally,” he paused. “Likewise, what you did in Afghanistan: the good, the bad, the ugly…all those things will have both positive and negative consequences.”

“So, you don’t think it’s wrong for one country to rule another country?”

“Theoretically, no. A strong, wealthy country can bring a lot of good things to small countries with minor economies and failing infrastructures. In practice, though, colonialism or invasion is never truly just about helping the indigenous. And I knew that even as a boy. Britain had her reasons for being in my country and they sure as hell had nothing to do with educated one little black boy.”

“I just wonder whether those folks over there, whether anything we do is ever going to bring peace.”

“I think there’s a right way and a wrong way.”

“And which did we do?”

“Look, Rich, you know I’m against these wars. And that doesn’t mean I’m against you or even that I think you acted immorally by fighting over there. But, I think our great country did a very bad thing. I think you have to choose your battles wisely and I don’t think anything was done wisely in the run-up to either of these conflicts…in Afghanistan or Iraq.”

“I was afraid you’d say that,” I force a laugh.

“But that isn’t to say that America can’t win or can’t make something good come out of a very serious mistake. You can always turn situations around with real leadership and direction.”

“But – at a certain point – do you ever wonder if maybe we’ve gone too far? Just too far and there’s no turning the situation around?”

“I suppose there’s a breaking point somewhere, but I don’t think America’s war crimes have reach it. Yet. I still think the principles of liberation are good and that some among us really hope for that. I believe you hoped for that when you were there. And you continue to.”

“Of course.”

“Then, the world may go to hell, but you did all you could to prevent that.”

“Do you think God will view it that way?” I ask almost under my breath.

“God? I wasn’t expecting questions of God tonight.”

“Sorry. Nevermind,” I laugh it off. “It’s just my mind wandering.”

“No, it’s alright. But I’m no priest. You’ll have to work that out with God, I’m afraid.”

I would, but he doesn’t answer me and then he disintegrates and disappears into my carpet. (This point, I chose not to mention to my father-in-law.)

* * * *

I don’t try to touch it this time, despite my curiosity. I let it swirl around. I can’t tell what it’s doing, but it’s doing something. It’s growing or forming. Whereas the dream leaves him formless: just sand swirling, particles flying in and out; now, it is becoming more confined to structure. I sit up silently, watching.

“Honey?”

And the sand blob again disintegrates into the carpet. It’s a good thing it disappears every time. I’d really be pissed if I had to vacuum it up every morning.

“Yeah, babe?”

“Why are you staring out the window? Is there something going on?” Clara, groggily, asks.

“No. Nothing’s going on. Just woke up. It’s a clear night. Lots of stars.”

She burrows her head back into her pillow. She probably won’t even remember this conversation come morning.

* * * *

My mother busily chooses this pan or that pot. The house smells like cake, but there’s no cake. How does she do that?

“Not that I don’t appreciate your combat work, but you’re home now, so you can help me out,” she says hurriedly. “Grab that spoon over there wouldya?”

“Yanno, if dinner’s three or even five minutes late, no one’s gonna scold ya, ma,” I say as I lean across the counter to grab the wooden spoon. “Not even Dad.”

“I’m not worried about it being late. I’m worried about it being burned.”

“You haven’t burned anything in your life.”

She laughs, “Well, regardless, I like having dinner on the table at 7 o’clock.”

“We always had dinner at 7. Every night. You’re pitchin’ a no-hitter, ma.”

“That’s not true.”

“Yes it is! Every night. And Dad’d yell at me if I wasn’t at the table, hands and face washing by 6:58.”

“No, no, no, I was late once. Remember that Sunday? After church, I stayed late to talk to Mrs. Farrow and I lost track of time?”

“No, I don’t remember that at all.”

“Well, I guess I was more upset about it than anybody else was. My job was to be your mom. I guess I saw it as some sort of failure. I would have been docked a day’s pay had I been workin’ in an office or factory or something.”

“Ehhh, you’re a great mom,” I say and kiss her cheek. “You’d be Head Supervisor Mom is you were in an office or a factory.”

“Oh, Rich. I’m glad Afghanistan hasn’t worn your sense of humor. I was wondering, actually, if you’d come to church with your dad and I this Sunday. Everyone’s been askin’ to see you.”

This request isn’t an outlandish one. I went to church with my parents every Sunday as a kid and most Sundays even once grown and married. It would only make sense that once home, I’d fall back into the routine.

Routine? How sad. Is that all church is to me?

“Richie?”

“Sure, ma, I’ll go.”

“Great! Oh, that’ll make Father Davis so happy.”

“Can I ask you something?”

She nods.

“Why do we always go to church? I don’t remember ever seeing either you or Pop with a Bible out in this house.”

“Well, I guess your dad and I always went growing up. It was something we thought was important. Give you and your sisters some sort of spiritual background.”

“But it wasn’t so much to believe in God. More just to believe in…something?”

“I don’t think we ever decided to press God onto you kids, but I certainly think we hoped you’d enjoy church and learn something from going.”

“I guess. I don’t know. Do you really believe in God or do you just think the stories are good. Not good like entertaining, but good like moral: stories to learn from.”

“Both.”

“So, you think there’s a God up there somewhere watching us?”

“Watching us, guiding us. Yes, I do. But even for those who don’t share that belief, I think learning some of those stories could do the whole world some good. Whether you think Jesus existed, even as a fictional character, he’s not a terrible role model.”

“If God’s watching us, then, do you think he’s happy with us?”

My mother, now realizing this wasn’t just a casual conversation, pauses her stirring.

“Happy with us as a family?”

“Happy with us as…humanity. All of us.”

“Father Davis would surely be more qualified to answer that than I am, but, yes. I think he’s happy with us.”

“Despite all the death and war and fighting? You think he’s happy with us?”

“I think all this death and war and fighting is part of His plan. Right now, it’s tough to swallow, tough to understand, but He has a purpose for all of us. He has His reasons.”

I pick up the spoon and begin to stir the sauce. I test it was my pinky finger.

“Think the sauce is ready,” I tell her.

If there is a God and if he is causing this, is that really a God I’d want to worship in a little church every Sunday? Shouldn’t God love us? Shouldn’t He want us to live long, happy lives? Why should war be the test of humanity? Why does there need to be a test at all?

* * * *

It’s always the same dream. The same war. The same ambush and bloodied sand. It’s always the same spot in my vision that speaks, but doesn’t speak. It’s form created before my eyes yet has no start or end. It’s always the same conversation and unanswered questions, the same gasp and beating heart.
And it’s one thing for this blob to haunt my dreams, but now he has invaded my turf: my home.

I try to keep my distress low and my wife ignorant of Afghanistan’s invasion of our home. There it is again: standing in front of me. Afghanistan sand has no place in my American bedroom. (Am I allotted no privacy? I mean, really, what if we were…yanno…busy!?) I say nothing this time. I stare at it, puzzled. I wonder if I watch it all night, will my wife see it when she finally awakes and – if she does – exactly how do I explain this one? I wonder which is worse: if she sees it or if only I can see it? I wonder if I’m simply crazy. Am I a prophet?

Is there a difference?

The sand blob swirls silently beside my bed. If it had eyes, I’d swear it was staring just as hard at me as I was at it. I wish I had a name for it. Or even a gender. I want to be polite. Would it respond more pleasantly to, “Hi, Mr. Sand Blob, sir: what can I do for you?” Does it even understand my non-dreaming language or could it only understand me when I was asleep because anything is possible in dreams?

Is this a dream too?

The tiny tan beads which form the blob are now darker and more defined. A shape is forming. God’s body? When they say that God is omnipresent is it because He’s made of sand and is quite literally everywhere?

A human-like figure forms, but the details are still blurred by sand. I can see a face, but it is neither feminine nor masculine. It’s just two eyes, and bump of a nose, and a hollow mouth. There are limbs, but nothing defined: hands, but no fingers; that sort of thing.

“Does this form intimidate you any less?” its mouth opens. I don’t hear it. I only understand it. It’s telepathy with the courtesy of a moving mouth. But I don’t know how to best communicate back: do I speak aloud or can he hear my thoughts?

“The latter,” Mr. Sand Blob responds.

This would be a wild acid trip had I taken any acid before bed.

“Actually, drugs make it tougher for me to enter your mind.”

Right. You hear my thoughts. Gotta remember that before I think anything inappropriate about Angelina Jolie.

“Anything inappropriate you think about Angelina Jolie is perfectly understandable. I do apologize for my intrusion. I know you cannot always control your thoughts and I will not hold it against you. You see: you keep waking up. I keep scaring you and I don’t mean to. Does this form intimidate you less?”

Well, yes, I suppose.

“Very good.”

If my wife wakes up – ?

“She’ll only see her husband sitting up in bed, staring blankly out the window.”

So does that then make you a figment of my imagination or…are you real?

“Reality is subjective.”

You’re really going to give me the ‘if a tree falls in the forest when no one’s there does it still make a thud’ argument?

“Reality is whatever you want it to be. If you want me to be in your imagination, then that is all I will be. If you want me to be real and physical, holding your hand on the beach, I can be that to. That is not important and it is not why I am visiting you.”

Okaaay. I’ll bite. Why are you visiting me?

“You’re in trouble.”

Me? Like…personally?

“Your planet and your kind are suffering. There is death like I’ve never seen before and not just among human beings, but among all species of all living creature.”

If you’re God, shouldn’t you be able to – yanno – make it stop?

“Regardless of whether I’m God, I couldn’t stop humans from doing what they choose to do. Unless you’re a determinist in which case…well, don’t be a determinist. Those folks are nutty. Point is: the only ones who can prevent early Armageddon are you, humans. You’re the only living creatures on the planet smart enough to fix the mess before it’s irreversible.”

Early Armageddon? You think we’ll end the world ourselves – what – before you’re ready for the judgment?

“No. Before the four horsemen’s horses are fed and bathed.”

You’re sort of a smart ass, aren’t you?

“If I’m God then don’t I deserve to be?”

And if you’re not God?

“Well then you’re the smart ass, aren’t you?”

Well, what am I supposed to do? I’m one guy. I’m not even over there anymore.

With this question on the floor, the blob suddenly went silent.

Excuse me? You still hovering over there?

“Men must live among men. Peace must be the goal for which all mankind is driven to achieve. Love was engineered to be among the strongest human emotions for just that purpose, but men seem to have forgotten what love really is. They’ve made marriage a popularity contest. They’ve made sex dirty. They’ve been blinded by greed and falsified faith. Mankind wants harmony – instinctively – and it is in the best interest of humanity that humanity thrive, that man lives on, that the Earth be revived and nurtured.”

Pretty sure I could have figured that one out.

“Yes. And you have. Now, what about your fellow men?”

With that question on the floor, I suddenly went silent.

“If I were God, I could promise you that if the world comes to an end by human means and not mine, you can be damn sure those pearly gates won’t be opening for anyone.”

So…you are God?

“And if I’m only a figment of your imagination, listen to what you’re saying to yourself: something is wrong with this world. It’s plain to see. It’s obvious. There’s death and hunger, greed, disease, mass sadness. You know that isn’t right.”

Yeah, okay, but – yanno – there are some people who think they’re doing you a favor. You, God…not you, me. So, what about those who encourage the destruction just to bring about the end of days?

“They are wrong. No deity would ever condone murder and any book which claims so has greatly misinterpreted the words of that deity.”

What if they won’t just listen to me?

“Figure out what they will listen to. It’s as if instead of one anti-Christ walking the earth to bring the end of days, the entire Christian right has turned into an army of anti-Christs, but they’re all wrong – all the religious fanatics – and they’re all pushing their luck. And my patience.”

Your patience? You are God, then?

“Aren’t they really trying your patience?”

And before I could answer, the blob disappeared again into my carpet and I fell back in my bed, compelled to sleep as if my body literally could not stand being awake any longer. There were no dreams of desert ambushes or sand blobs anymore.

* * * *

“So, that sand monster of yours still visiting you?” Andy asks as his son and Abby play in the sandbox.

“Oh, him? No.”

“So did you vanquish God or just start seeing a good therapist?” he laughs.

“I don’t know what it was. I think I just figured out that – while no one person or soldier is at fault – there is a very big problem over there. A messy one. And it’s okay for me to think it’s a mistake even if I served; I’m not betraying anyone.”

“No, man, of course not. We all got our opinions of what went on over there.”

“And that isn’t to say that there’s no cause over there worth fighting over, but we’re just not doing it right. We’re just making them hate us more. Our morals are clashing with theirs and – ultimately – it’s what they think that matters; it’s their land.”

“For now,” Andy says, shaking his head in disapproval.

“This whole thing really never felt like it was totally about liberation.”

“No, of course not. We got caught with our pants down and had to react. And we lucked out because at least we did help a little in Afghanistan. Iraq has just become such a fuckin’ shit hole. ‘Howdy, we’re from America; here to give you freedom and democracy, but first we’re going to destroy your cities and force curfews upon you! Oh…and we’ll take some of that oil too, while we’re here.’”

“It just never really seemed that worth it, yanno? And if we were going to invade, it should have been done a lot better than this,” I lament.

“We’re just snatchin’ up countries left and right. Next stop…Iran? What the fuck, man.”

“Empires fall. They always do. And someday this one’s gonna fall too.”

* * * *

After church, Father Davis wants to speak with me. He promises my parents, with whom I had driven, that we would only be a few minutes. He has an office down a short corridor where those doubtful souls or the lost-willed come for heavenly words of guidance.

“How’ve you been since you got home?” he asks.

“Doin’ alright. I’m sorry I haven’t been to church until today. So many people to catch up with,” I say as I pull out the chair in front of Father Davis’ desk.

“No, no, it’s quite fine. I was not offended. In truth, a lot of returning soldiers seem to find it difficult to return to church. For some, faith is all they had, but for others, war can often make it difficult to keep the faith.”

“Well, I can’t say I was a regular attendee of the chapel, but I made it there when I could.”

“I just wanted to make sure you were readjusting well and to tell you that the church and I are here for you, for whatever crises in faith you may experience.”

“Well, Father, thank you. I really appreciate that.”

“Is there anything you want to get off your chest?”

I think for a moment.

“Son?” Father Davis asks.

“Just…I worry that God won’t be proud of me, that my service – in his eyes – is just pointless killing.”

“I see. Every person must take responsibility for his or her deeds. What you did in the war – in any other situation – could be defined as pointless killing. Does God know or care whether you killed because it was your order, because you had to protect your country?”

“Exactly. Does He?”

“I believe ours is a forgiving Lord. I believe you know in your heart whether what you did was justified and, if having decided it was not, you must reconcile your deeds first with yourself, your friends, you fellow soldiers, and then with God. God granted us the gift of morality. With his help, we can see the right path.”

“Thank you, Father,” I say, nodding.

Father Davis stands. I stand as well. I reach out my hand and he places his in mind. He shakes my hand firmly, smiling like a proud father, and we exit the church.

I’ve never thought or morality and a ‘gift from God’ particularly. I always sort of thought of it as something we all learn. Despite this minor disagreement, I understand what Father Davis means. If I sense that our actions in the world are wrong, I have the power to protest them, the duty, in fact. I don’t regret my service. I know I did some good and, perhaps, as my father-in-law said: “I still think the principles of liberation are good and that some among us really hope for that.”

I don’t know whether it’s God’s will or my subconscious gnawing at me, but it doesn’t really matter. The pain, death, and suffering occurring in the world is plain to see through anyone’s eyes: omnipotent or not. I know right from wrong, or I know one version of it. I recognize that different people, even the ones we had to deal with overseas and even the ones who blow themselves up, all have a version of morality by which they have to live. I learned from my parents that defending your country is good and I learned from my wife and her family that war in the name of anything less than defending your country is not good. I don’t need a God to tell me that and while I didn’t always know it, once it was learned it was very much real and apparent to me. Almost innate. So, whether I’m a prophet or a guilt-ridden former soldier who can’t sleep through the night, whether my moral compass is as a result of God’s works or my upbringing: I know the blood being spilled in the name of what used to be such a great and strong state is being spilled haphazardly and unnecessarily.

A new Bible needs to be written.






Acknowledgements:

“This is war…every line is about what I don’t want to write about anymore.”
- Stolen from Brand New’s “Okay, I Believe You, But My Tommy Gun Don’t” off Deja Entendu (2003)

“Empires fall. They always do. And someday this one’s gonna fall too.”
- Stolen from Kevin Devine’s live version(s) of “Noose Dressed Like A Necklace” (and/or “Whistlin’ Dixie”) off Make The Clocks Move (2003)

A Saint

Sometimes I can feel him,
hear his voice inside my head.
A saint I never mentioned;
a saint forever dead.
But I hear his songs
sung sweetly through
a sadness and a thickening soot,
digging himself out of an unspoken rut.
Working through some late night terror
with beauty and matchless grace.
Dark demons only he saw,
though thousands heard,
left him hungry and raw
and inevitably alone.
Everyone is a fucking pro,
but they let you walk around with a head so low.
He knew it better than most
and with a whisper from his ghost,
I heard a hundred sorry songs
of so many regretted wrongs.
We hear every word
and hum every tune.
Don't worry, dear balladeer,
you will not be forgetten soon.

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

Meh. I already wrote this poem and it was better the first time, but it just keeps coming up.






"Everyone is a fucking pro and they all got answers from trouble they've known." Elliott Smith St. Ides Heaven

"We look to flashes of sky, the windows of time, the crust of our dreams. But really we wait, only to find the crest of our sea. And, we ride when we find our wave. Take us to the coast, carry us home." Band Marino Dear Balladeer

Your Apocalypse

Your apocalypse came and went,
showered down the innocent.
Your pristine haven
with your god still saving
souls and damning saints.
I hear a whisper; it's faint
and it keeps my head spinning
while God is grinning
a magnificent, mischievous grin
because there's no consequence for His sin.
He sunbathes on a cloud
and can't hear us crying so loud
while Jesus writes dirty poetry
and hides it where no one can see.
A happy literate is he
and his words are for free.
But you'll manage to mangle them,
destroy, wreck, and tangle them
so you'll never listen
to his proud and peaceful sermon.
It's your own fault for throwing it away.
It's your own fault for what you won't say.
And you'll grieve when you hear
the horseman's horse galloping near,
but you'll know in your heart
that you brought about the start.
The fire's heat sticks
and the devil's pitchfork pricks
against your back
for the conviction you lack.
Don't claim your piety now
for Love to whom you never did vow.

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

At my local Starbucks, there was a book entitled "Jesus With Dirty Feet" sitting on a little book shelf. I misread the title for a brief moment as "Jesus Writes Dirty Poetry." Don't ask me how. The spine of the book was wrecked, so the only words I could really make out were "Jesus" and "Dirty." I was a little disappointed when I saw I was wrong. So, it became the basis for this poem. I liked the idea. Jesus was a hippie-ish figure, afterall. I could see him writing dirty poetry and hiding it from Pop. God in this poem is the Old Testament 'fire and brimstone' sort of God and Jesus is supposed to represent a softer figure who is then - naturally - misunderstood; his words turned upside down and interpreted into garbage he never intended. Maybe this is my brief history of the Christian faith. Maybe.





"There's hell upon a breeze; there's hell upon a breeze. Six riders ride..." AA Bondy How Will You Meet Your End?

Shoe Laces

Heart bleeds,
skips a beat,
whispers lies
and takes bribes.

You're much too far away
and I can't think quiet enough to pray.
I miss the words you wrote
and the song from your throat.

But it's your hand on my back,
that warmth I now lack,
the keeps me awake at night,
that keeps you within sight.

I'm not in the business of interpretation
and to try would be a great sin
and just because I miss your eyes,
doesn't mean I'm paralyzed.

So, tell me something meaningful:
words that wake the idle
and bring me back to you
where my vision's always glued

to soft faces
and shoe laces
and smiles that bite through
even the thickest fog and dew.

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

It's about the little things we notice about people that make us miss them the most.





"So let my hands stray past that boundaries of your back to get you breathing and get this started..." Brand New Logan To Government Center

Myth Born

Tell me the truth
or a convincing lie:
words so mangled
and mismanaged,
their meanings are
muffled and mutated.
There was a story
whispered or maybe
wimpered, but not told:
remembered,
restored,
resurrected,
rewound, and
ruined.
Written and
written off:
a lie spewed
a myth born,
a happy ending
to save face,
to let you leave
with a smile in place.
But it's fake
and fraudulent
and it sickens
every inch.
Disappears
in a sinch.
Aches on your skin,
a pinch.
You want the truth
to sound so sweet.
Oh, disappointment,
a fatal defeat.
But you force your head high
and you smile real wide
and you cover and conceal
that which you can't feel.

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

It's about the lies we believe and the truth we can't believe.




"Believe in me ' cause I don't believe in anything and I want to be someone to believe..." Counting Crows Mr. Jones

Back

There's dust and a haze
I get lost in these days.
The shadows are too thick
so I lose you when I blink,
search through the muck.
Why should I give a fuck?
I say it's just a phase
I get lost in some days.
I wander around an empty house
behind the ghost of a lost spouse
who was never really mine;
I was yours to pass the time.
It's just your gaze
I get lost in most days.
A song sings through
the walls of my room.
The needle is dirty,
but the record keeps turning.
Your words and your ways
I get lost in nowadays.
A slip of the tongue
and all hell has begun.
And I just want to go back.
I just want to go back.



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




"It's seven-thirty. I can smell the candles burning. I could go to sleep now. I'll just wait till morning when the melodies come and sing me stories. All the birds that can talk; no, they're never boring..." Wild Sweet Orange House Of Regret

"In the shadows buried in me lies a child's toy..." Sunny Day Real Estate Shadows

Falling

It's something in the inside
and I don't have words to write it out:
misleading and misunderstanding,
speaks in tongues and scribbles.
Peeling out from behind
a weak and weathered mind,
it's misshapen and mistaken;
and it was never quite right.
Just like us.
It boroughs back
into it's shell:
cozy and cold,
falling into the comfort
and complacency
of normalcy and patterns,
of admiring from afar.
Teeth, like bars, hold back,
a trap,
a language barrier we built
and never broke:
silence,
in which so much is said,
but every word misheard,
indiscernible.
So, in your face,
I read a warning;
it tells me:
stay away.
Another step farther
and I won't see anymore;
I'll just fall away
while falling harder.
Because I want to know
your song
and your smile
and every inch.
But that's not what I say,
only what I mean
and I fall behind the horizon,
so I'll always be falling.

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




"With your head up high, would you try? 'Cause you're the only one to pull me through - it's true - and it seems a waste of time to grow old alone; we've been dyin' since the day we fell apart..." The New Frontiers The Day You Fell Apart

"Shivering cold, I woke up in water and wrapped myself around the toilet seat. I spoke in tongues and took all my clothes off. The tops of my fingers touched the tops of my toes..." Wild Sweet Orange Ten Dead Dogs

"I got this delicate lisp that speaks in tongues and upper lips. Your silhouette's my favorite. I'm not letting go of it..." Northstar Pollyanna

XO

Clear your mind.
Pass the time.
It's late,
but it's so crowded.
Listen to a voice
through the headphones.
You can turn him up louder
than the noise in your head.
The sky is falling,
but who's to notice.
Each dying star
unseen or forgotten.
It's all the same to you,
another sign of destruction.
A hand to warm your shoulder:
placed there by a dead man.
His visage would startle you
if you weren't expecting him.
His voice sings and sooths,
but you'll never know him now.
And the pain,
like that of not knowing God,
aches in a place you didn't know existed
and makes your skin burn inside to out.
You reach,
but the hand is gone.
No remnants to grab.
No warmth to calm.
To honor his words, I vow,
and I'm gonna love him anyhow.

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

This came out of nowhere, but it happened last night. Not shitting you.




"What I used to be will pass away and then you'll see that all I want now is happiness for you and me..." Elliott Smith Happiness

In Mirrors

In mirrors, there's a shine,
but not in mine.
It's stale and bitter
and looks like me.
A glare, a dagger,
a meaningless mess,
a tie untied,
and a secret to confess:
avert your eyes
so you can ignore the rest.

I felt it in your glance
and saw it in your fingers.
I tasted it in your voice
before you went silent.
It was a brilliant mirage
I fell for in full,
framed into focus
and forced into view.
Now: a back turned
and a book closed

mid chapter,
dialogue choked.
We are a story unwritten
or never quite conceived
or shelved for a rainy day
in Paradise.
And whatever weak lines
are written for me
are probably better off
remaining in the silence.

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

More to come.



"We saw a spark within your eyes. Your face reflected in the light. We are all angels in the sky. We are all mirrors in disguise." The New Frontiers Mirrors

You'll Have To Wait

Save your voice
from getting harsh
by biting your tongue
and sucking it up.
It's getting late
and for your wishes,
you'll have to wait.
You'll have to wait.
Those screaming sounds
from behind your ears
are telling you:
give into your fears.
Another fall,
another failure,
another mark,
a brilliant anchor.
I wear it well:
my seal of honor.
It's nothing,
but a constant reminder.
And even louder,
a clamor.
It shuts me in
and up
and down
and where I land
is in the dark:
the only place
where I can see
what's sitting there
in front of me.
A cloudy sky,
a rotting Earth,
and all the things
I should have thought of first
are tearing down my walls.
A riot.
Wait some more
and then you'll see,
all that's really left of me,
melted in your eyes
and evaporated to the sky.
Up here, there's a better view.
I wish you knew.

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

^ Written in a Waffle House in Phoenix.



"I met a girl on the square who showed me how to kill my cares, but once that's done, man, there's nothing left to do. Time's running backwards from me to you." Elliott Smith Riot Coming

Cold

It's swollen and it hurts
and it's lesser than it's worth.
A badge, a mark, and name tag pinned
in vibrant red onto my skin.
A scowl sketched inside my skull
reminds me that my fists are full
of fire and a choking heat;
the blood spills SPLAT onto my feet.
You can't find it in the words I say,
but you read it in my eyes anyway.
And it twists and turns
and disappears before you learn,
cried out in a tear
and whipped away out of fear.
Without words, a plea:
you want more from me,
but the syllables make it real
and that breaks the deal,
breaks the latch and starts the flood;
hear me fall and make a thud
on a floor of glass that cracks
under the weight of useless facts
that leave me done and out of breath,
just out of reach of crooked death.
It's the story I've written in ink
of how I never stop to think,
about the hand that leaves mine cold;
my God, this story's getting old.

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

Still working on that one about the end of the world. It's sitting there staring at me, but it's too much to think about. Especially since I leave for tour tomorrow and I don't feel like thinking about the end of the world.

For now, here's some inner contemplation leaking out. For whatever good that does.



"This is the life you went and earned because you never fucking learned." Kevin Devine Carnival

Mercy Street

Almost gave up today,
threw another one away,
like the sky was falling down
and on God's face a frown.
A let-down, a disgrace
and on my hand is placed
the mark of sin;
an evil grin
peers at me across Mercy Street.
He swears - for me - he is sweet.
Or his ripe red apple is.
He cons me just like this.
Redemption is too lost to be found.
She's dug herself far under ground.
She fears false confessions of
faith, remorse, or love.
So, I take from the grinner
his apple for my dinner.
But before my tongue can taste,
my veins spill out their waste;
my hateful heart can no longer beat
upon the concrete of Mercy Street.

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

I guess, in keeping with a theme, it's about wanting to feel forgiven. There's a story in there somewhere, but figure it out yourselves.



"With every breath you drink in the night, you won't give up your blues without a fight. And looking at the sky, there is no pain, and the stars keep falling down like burning rain. They were fired by the mightiest of guns..." AA Bondy The Mightiest Of Guns

A Crooked Crutch

From savior to son,
from holy spirit to the one,
to whom repentance is owed in full
and forgiveness is a sober tool:
when all is said and done
does it really matter who's lost or won?
Whatever you hold true
is yours to hold true
from the landscapes of Eden
to the edges of Hell or even
the space in which coming clean
leaves you buried and unseen.
War, Famine, Pestilence, Death,
a thunderous gallop you wish to forget:
don't look twice; we're well on our way
to a judgment which will wash us away.
That heavy gavial, that heavenly judge,
that holy jury: will they hold a grudge?
Will the gates open wide or slam in you face
the day the clouds fall and earth is displaced?
Oh, Sin, you say you know me well,
because my heart, from Heaven, fell.
You keep me far from home and love,
and from almighty God above.
And yet you don't appear in space
or occur in any single place.
You are nothing but an abstract fiend,
a crooked crutch upon which I leaned.
You are Fear without Faith
and I think I like your taste,
but I hate your big steel bars
and - most of all - I hate your scars.

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

It's about a fall from grace.

I'm not sure whose.

It didn't make an impact.






"I don't want to talk about Jesus. I just want to see His face." AA Bondy Rapture (Sweet Rapture)

Spin

When failure's not an option
you spin inside your head,
finding faults in every detail
like you're wasting more than breath.

Each frame of every film
and each smile laced with guilt
reveals a shining, desperate quirk,
a secret you died for, but kept.

Like you're racing more than time,
you clinch your fists and grit your teeth
as if such empty gestures could compete,
as if you don't just want to bleed.

It's the debt you earned and owe
for writing less than what you know
and letting that which saves you
break, shatter, scatter, and blow.

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

I wanted this to be a lot more than it became. Then, I just got annoyed with it. I'm out of school and I just feel like I'm floating. I could be what I have been. I could be what I was. Or I could try to be something different if I had any idea how to do that. I feel like the magic 8 ball would say: "outlook not good."






"Keep looking, but get any inkling of 'failure' out of your head - you're doing the right thing by enjoying your free time and the weather..."

Begin

You tried to fix me,
but I broke
free and fell
like stars from Heaven.
There are footsteps beside mine
so I must be going mad,
but He whispers not to worry
and takes me by the hand.
"I don't know you,"
I say with a stutter.

And He doesn't reply,
only raises a mirror to my nose.
But I don't know
whose eyes look back anymore:
there's no reflection without light
and it's all the same with eyes shut anyhow.
So I won't see the world
and I won't taste the sun,
but I'll hear the songs
and I'll feel them through.

But can salvation be sung?
Can it be lost or won?
Is it written in ink?
Can it dissolve or shrink?
It's something like faith
that keeps me awake.
Hazy eyed and terrified,
I wonder if he knows I lied.
Forgive me, Father, I have sinned.
Don't even know where to begin.

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

Abnormal poem. Especially for me. Stanzas that aren't four lines long? Haha. I don't do that. It also only rhymes in the last stanza, which is something that would normally bug me. I like consistency. I decided to tell myself to shut the fuck up on that, though. This time.

It's sort of just about how you can't know "God" or you can't have faith or spirituality until you know who YOU are, until you know what you're all about and what you stand for / believe in. It doesn't have to be "God" in any religious sense. You can't have any idea about what you're life should stand for until you know who you are. If the light's off in the room and you can't see who you are, you can't even begin the process. If you can't be honest, you might as well live in the dark.

Don't worry. I'm not converting or dedicating my life to Jesus. Just because I've had a Bible on my desk opened up to Revelation for the last two days doesn't mean shit. I'm just studying. Thinking.





"I hope Jesus is the one, but what if we're wrong and he doesn't come? Who will give us love?" The New Frontiers Who Will Give Us Love?"


"I'll take something to believe, something with long sleeves 'cause it's unpredictable. Now Jesus said He'd fill my needs, but my heart still bleeds. He's just not physical." - Pedro The Lion Promise

The Joke's On You

Caves and Earth's crust
and crisp, clean air:
breathe better before
the Fall.
Preparing at night,
those false saints
for their judgment,
their last triumphant stand.
Divinity swings on her cloud
watching the cars pollute the sky,
the lit factory lights
shown through haze towards Heaven.
Gates closed:
no more admission today,
no more deserving souls,
just weary soldiers.
"And it's not enough,"
she sighs.
"Spare me your prayers,"
her lamentations trail.
A mocking laugh,
a mushroom cloud,
a menacing eye,
a machine gun blast,
and all the rumors
(lies we spread),
the paper thin promises
(ripped to shreds)
create a world of nothing true,
nothing real, and nothing new.
"This time, kids, the joke's on you,"
Divinity heckled, her rage grew.
Melt away, regenerate,
retell the lies you swear you hate.
She'll have you realize your own fate,
but only once it's much too late.
So, go on about your mission of might
and how - for freedom - we have to fight.
Remember well the words you write:
they haunt the rest of us at night.

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

This could probably fit in somewhere with the 'Emperor' series, but I don't think it quite makes it there...but maybe. It's along those same lines, but dealing more with morality from an innocent omniscient point of view. It's about the end of the world, about doom, about someone 'up there' saying, "Fuck you guys; I'm tired of you and your useless bullshit." It's about all the ways we kill ourselves. It's all about the end because, really, nothing and no one is forever and when all our bullshit is said and done, does it really matter who's won? It's about: "Can we all just get along?" and "Can't you just kiss and make up?" It's about wishing that people would actually do what's right, what makes them happy (while not hurting anyone else), what makes them tick. It's about Divinity and she wants you to know that "life is what it makes of you." (Yeah...I've been into The New Frontiers for a week and a half and I've decided I'm awesome enough to quote them.)


"I've been writing a lot about God," I told him.
"I've noticed. You write about God a lot for someone who doesn't believe in her."
I snicker.





"It's not what we're owed, but it's what we've earned and it's closer than we realize and it's time now to burn." Kevin Devine Time To Burn

"Once there was a time to join the army and once there was a time to hear the news and once there was a time for easy silence, but now the jury waits for you." AA Bondy Witness Blues

Landing

A pretty paradox:
perfection and detox.
I lost the words I meant to write
to mist and shadows and a vacuumous light.
I tucked them away in a box
and weighed it down with rocks.
They were too weak to win a fight
against her eternal, omnisent right.

And in their deep sea dungeon,
that place so foreign:
no screams are audible,
no sylables recognizable.
While her heretical surmon
acts as more motivation:
this urge, insurmountable
and the mark, unmistakable.

Scribbled lines on tattered pages
left forgotten for ages and ages
are my only hope for understanding,
redemption, love, or landing
on my feet through these changes
of hearts and minds and places.
And through my staggered planning,
erase all evidence of my branding.

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

"...
When between her and her foes
A mist, a light, an image rose,
Small at first, and weak, and frail
Like the vapour of a vale:

Till as clouds grow on the blast,
Like tower-crowned giants striding fast,
And glare with lightnings as they fly,
And speak in thunder to the sky,

It grew - a Shape arrayed in mail
Brighter than the viper's scale,
And upborne on wings whose grain
Was as the light of sunny rain..."

- P.B. Shelley, "The Mask Of Anarchy"

He Looks Away

But you never said it, did you?
And you never made a sound,
and the words that passed your lips
were always only partly true.
So, there's no one left to blame
except that sorry, misshapen sap
whose empty eyes gaze back
from behind your mirror's cracking pane.
I picked up the pieces that I found,
but they didn't fit anywhere anyway.
And falling, they landed and
looked more whole apart than as part.
Of a larger hole
where passions are misplaced,
perfectly prim paradoxes
play with forced-quiet tongues.
It rages in your skull until you burst
or tear the seams that suck you in.
One day, all the things you should have said
will poison you and take your breath.
Folly's in the silence reached
when fear controls you voice,
when Love bats his eyes, but you refrain
because you swear he looks away.

Your Pages

Thievery in themes
among words and worlds
of thought
and heart:
what's right,
what's not.
And each measured line
written in hasty rhyme
is written and rewritten
and plucked from piles
of your pages,
only with perforations.
Poesy and Piracy are cousins
rooted together in branching affection:
an understanding unspoken,
uttered alone in eyes.
There is not in the world
either malice or matter to alter it,
I think.
I hope.
With inspiration as elusive
as an aging angel,
I anguish as Antigonus
in restless agitation.
Art has never been
so very close;
now it teeters terribly
on the tip of my tongue.
Something so near,
but never mine
because I am only
what I say
and I say
so very little
of what is truly
mine to say.

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


Sources:

CAMILLO: Sicilia cannot show himself over-kind to Bohemia.
They were trained together in their childhoods; and
there rooted betwixt them then such an affection,
which cannot choose but branch now. Since their
more mature dignities and royal necessities made
separation of their society, their encounters,
though not personal, have been royally attorneyed
with interchange of gifts, letters, loving
embassies; that they have seemed to be together,
though absent, shook hands, as over a vast, and
embraced, as it were, from the ends of opposed
winds. The heavens continue their loves!

ARCHIDAMUS: I think there is not in the world either malice or
matter to alter it. You have an unspeakable
comfort of your young prince Mamillius: it is a
gentleman of the greatest promise that ever came
into my note.

- The Winter's Tale - William Shakespeare

AND

The Ecstasy Of Influence

Mauled And Masked

There's a word
for people like you.
I'm sure of it,
only I don't know it.
I can't pronounce it
and I can't spell it.
It gets caught in my throat
and stuck between my teeth.
Mauled and
masked.
I'm a terrible poet
and worse at 3am,
but your miles
are in my eyes.
Wide open,
wide awake,
and that wide smile of yours
wades through the width.
Whispers and whines
and wayward eyes
and the musty shine
of lucid lines
make clear intentions,
no false accusations.
It's true;
all of it is.
But fancy words
can't create bridges.
If time and space
were nothing but terms,
this bed would be less empty
and my body less cold.

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

Couldn't sleep.

Fuch yeah, dude.

I'm still cold.




"'You sink your voice, but I can distiguish the tones of that voice, when they would be lost on others.'" Captain Wentworth / Jane Austen Persuasion

Voice Betrayed

Itching to etch for days:
the fog, the rain, the haze
and inspired fortunes phase
you in and out of stirring craze.
Words turn meanings - switch in phrase -
and syntax taxing tampered praise
create a patchwork puzzle of blacks and greys
and meaning is lost: alphabet decays.
Language thrown into the blaze
of reds and yellows; your ending frays
and falls apart in neat cliches,
but it's only your voice you did betray.
Your feather or pen, your ink well lays
as welted proof of no todays
as past swallows you whole and weighs
upon your shoulders: kicks and plays.
Wake up: it's just a phase
'cause you're not done with all the ways
you write and wait through his delays;
I wonder if this one stays.

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

Title comes from an earlier draft.

Listening to a lot of Elliott Smith, though I'm not sure that explains anything. Upon first reading, this won't make any sense, but it is really quite literal: sort of about writing out your life and then revising when someone tells you it's wrong until it makes no sense and then you quit complaining about what has already happened to start focusing on what is happening or could potentially happen next...though that may not be any better. Something like that.





"So, wake up 'cause you're not done. You could pick yourself up, kid, and you could learn how to love..." Kevin Devine Ballgame [Live]

Advance

Putting broken words together:
you are form, formal, formidable.
Our split speech spits
and spews in sync
with lavish decor
around the door
way to a place where
language is love.
Your eyes and mouth
defy the possible
and your sentences
lack sense;
they conflict
and contradict
with action,
with what I know.
But I feel your glance
on the back of my neck
and I see the tips of your lips
advance.
Adverse am I
to my own defeat,
to an end unknown,
and a truth never shown.

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


Among other things, I adore your words.




"I'm falling back in love with the letter you wrote." Kevin Devine The Longer That I'm Out Here

The Riders Ride

I watched the Sunrise shake
and sip down lemonade
in springtime's blowing breath;
he wrapped himself in flames.
The devil's humid heat
sticks to your melting flesh
and as the Riders ride,
their gallops' genocide,
the Almighty hides his head
and weeps into his palms.
Too sunk to swallow up
redemption, pride, or love,
you choke down molten rock
and drown within hell's wicked walls.
It's fate and it's yours to own,
no pearly gates to welcome you.
It's not your fault; it wasn't you:
just your nation, your leader, your vote.
His Grace disgraced in gunfire and guts,
and with no mercy left Him to offer,
your wrinkled words of worship
can’t do a thing to save us now.


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

^ Mostly written during Later Romantic Lit.


It's spring and beautiful out and all I can think about is the Apocalypse. Does that make me weird?




"I prayed for providence. God said, 'Don't pray no more.'" - Kevin Devine All Of Everything, Erased

Story

It's that song you fell asleep to
that now keeps you awake
and it stares into your soul
through eyelids never closed.
And that nightmare left you drenched
in someone else's sweat
with the smell on salt and sand
saturating through your sheet.
You want the language all to stop:
those words you can't hear
whose demands you already know
and they bite and tease and tear.
Away. What kept you sane
you ask in anguish in volumes
of abridged anthologies: fragment
sentences and incomplete thoughts
and love letters never sent and
air you merely pretended to breathe
that's locked in the binding
and lost is the smudges.
The past turns with each page,
torn and twisted,
tinged from timidity
and everything you didn't say.
Somewhere in between each line
you taint with clever vocabulary,
there's a man with a look
about him you don't understand.
He's holding a book
and it's bigger than yours
and it tells every story,
every myth ever written or told.
You already told him you love him
and he already knows how to wreck you.
And all that remains is
that you write your story now.


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

^ I haven't been sleeping well. ^

All the words in my head are really cheap knock offs of muffled KD demos and Shakespearean imagery. And there's more.



"This kind of wordplay gets you ostracized, but if you operate inside these perfect lines you'll be fine." Kevin Devine Write Your Story Now

Inside To Out To In

You take a deep breath
and a big step back
and you keep your eyes closed.
You think you can find clarity
in eye lids' locked darkness;
in your armored cocoon.
Only life breaks through;
it's edge rough and rusted
and rogue hate bleeds in.
Thick skin forms where your
ignorance couldn't protect you,
where what you know spits you open.
Desensitized and vulnerable,
careless and stubborn,
you put yourself out.
Like Coriolanus and his 27
marks of honor and valiance,
painted like medals on flesh
and you cover and hide
what you lived through, but not over
and it rots you from inside to out to in.
And then you can't live
in a world where others breathe
and you despise every smile,
each one a reminder of your failure
and by your own design;
it's such a drag.


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


I stole this entire poem.


Sources:


MENENIUS: True! I'll be sworn they are true.
Where is he wounded?

[To the Tribunes]

God save your good worships! Marcius is coming
home: he has more cause to be proud. Where is he wounded?

VOLUMNIA: I' the shoulder and i' the left arm there will be
large cicatrices to show the people, when he shall
stand for his place. He received in the repulse of
Tarquin seven hurts i' the body.

MENENIUS: One i' the neck, and two i' the thigh,--there's
nine that I know.

VOLUMNIA: He had, before this last expedition, twenty-five
wounds upon him.

MENENIUS: Now it's twenty-seven: every gash was an enemy's grave.

[A shout and flourish]

Hark! the trumpets.

VOLUMNIA: These are the ushers of Marcius: before him he
carries noise, and behind him he leaves tears:
Death, that dark spirit, in 's nervy arm doth lie;
Which, being advanced, declines, and then men die.

[A sennet. Trumpets sound. Enter COMINIUS the general, and TITUS LARTIUS; between them, CORIOLANUS, crowned with an oaken garland; with Captains and Soldiers, and a Herald]

HERALD: Know, Rome, that all alone Marcius did fight
Within Corioli gates: where he hath won,
With fame, a name to Caius Marcius; these
In honour follows Coriolanus.
Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus!

[Flourish]

ALL: Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus!

CORIOLANUS: No more of this; it does offend my heart:
Pray now, no more.


"Coriolanus" by William Shakespeare.


-- AND --


"Time heals all wounds they say, but the self inflicted won't just fade away and in these shifting tides of blame why are you suprised to see your name? It's such a drag. Time got the best of you. Things you gave you say were taken, explaination piled over excuse. And so the story goes, but by your own design and if you look to me to find you then my eyes will pass right though..."


"By Design" by Rites Of Spring

Nerve

Another disappointment
which I've brought about.
Your disapproving eyes,
your discontented voice:
it's all that rings in the space
between my two ears.
It rattles,
like snakes do.
It growls
like the rabid
with contemptuous foam
and poisonous breath.
No proud maternal smiles,
just cold distance as I wait
for my head to be bitten off
like the runts of litters.
You are anxiety
and tension.
You smite deeds done
in the best of spirits.
You are an anchor,
locking me down.
You are the will
which raises the knife.
It's your hand
on the handle
and your strength
that breaks my nerve.
So innocent you
assume yourself to be,
yet so murderous
the result of your actions.
Thoughtless words
spoken in haste,
a happy symbol
turned to dark:
another mistake
added to your list.
I'm sure the tally's
monumental and meticulous.
Jab once or twice:
I feel nothing at all.
'Nothing?'
'Nothing.'
The breaking of skin
is numbed by experience.
The only pain I feel now
is courtesy of you.

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


LEAR: To thee and thine hereditary ever
Remain this ample third of our fair kingdom;
No less in space, validity, and pleasure,
Than that conferr'd on Goneril. Now, our joy,
Although the last, not least; to whose young love
The vines of France and milk of Burgundy
Strive to be interess'd; what can you say to draw
A third more opulent than your sisters? Speak.

CORDELIA: Nothing, my lord.

LEAR: Nothing?

CORDELIA: Nothing.

LEAR: Nothing will come of nothing: speak again.

CORDELIA: Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave
My heart into my mouth: I love your majesty
According to my bond; nor more nor less.

Missed It

An addiction only addicts can romanticize,
poems written on hips and thighs.
You smile, warmly, with your eyes;
you don't know I'm keeping lies.
Secrets - like hot air - rise
up my throat, to my lips: chastise.

Bile burns my mouth and lips,
as cold skin begins to rip
from the metal I've learned to worship.
Bubbles, oozes, and drips.
Why not just one more trip?
At risk is just a friendship.

It's getting old; it's getting tired.
Don't have the will that is required
and every attempt is bruised and mired.
Words reused or long expired,
leave so much to be desired.
So, I'll just lay here uninspired.

And read this verse as my confession:
the truth in words I couldn't fashion,
a warning of the deepest caution.
Love and hate, a bubbling caldron:
ridged and rough and smooth and silken
with all the mysteries that lie within.

I loved him in ways that are listed
on limbs that are whithered and wilted.
I'd say the words if they existed,
if their spellings weren't rank and twisted.
The tale's too mangled and maliable and misted
and though I told you, I knew you missed it.

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

What this is really about is something I'm eternally unable to articulate which is why it winds up making no sense. It's like: something happened and you should know, but I can't wrap my head around it; therefore, I can't explain it.

But, really, you don't want to know anyway, so it's probably for the best that the words are gone (or were never there to begin with). And for the sake of not losing more people I love, my teeth are locked tightly atop my tongue.




"I'll just lay here uninspired, feeling bad that I threw you away..." Kevin Devine Confessional At 6am

A Luncheon With God And Satan

This is the short play I wrote last semester for Creative Writing. I've been meaning to post it and I just kept forgetting. Blogspot really doesn't format scripts very well. :/



Cast:
GOD – El
SATAN – Beelze
BOYFRIEND – Unnamed pagan deity

Synopsis:
GOD and SATAN meet to discuss what to do with the madness down on Earth, whether to begin the apocalypse. “Beelze” is short for Beelzebub and is GOD’s nickname for SATAN. “El” is a Semitic term meaning “GOD” and is SATAN’s nickname for GOD. The setting is GOD’s kitchen which includes, at least: a refrigerator (with bottles of water and orange juice inside), dishwasher, coffee maker, mugs / glasses, and a newspaper. There are finger sandwiches in the center on the table which go untouched.

****
(God sits at a table in the kitchen of her home talking with her BOYFRIEND who is preparing coffee. BOYFRIEND is wearing a flannel work shirt and jeans while GOD is dressed in a white sundress.)

GOD
(To BOYFRIEND) Why is she always late?

(BOYFRIEND sets a mug of coffee down on the table for GOD. He holds his own mug and takes a seat at the table.)

BOYFRIEND
Character flaw?

(Doorbell rings. BOYFRIEND answers and walks back into the kitchen, now accompanied by SATAN. SATAN is dressed in a red sundress, similar to GOD’s, and has tiny horns protruding from her forehead.)

GOD
Beelze!

SATAN
El!

(The two women – Beelzebub and El - embrace. BOYFRIEND fixes SATAN a mug of coffee.)

GOD
How are things in Hell these days?

SATAN
It’s summer all year ‘round. I can’t complain too much. And Heaven?

GOD
Pretty good. It’s been abnormally warm, actually. Humans are only now starting to admit that global warming exists. They’ll never believe it affects Heaven too!

(GOD and SATAN take seats at the table.)

SATAN
Well, humans have always been pretty narrow-minded creatures.

GOD
Speaking of which, I’m so sorry to call our annual meeting early, Beelze, but I’m really worried about what I’m seeing down on Earth. There’s so much destruction! I almost mistook the bombings in Iraq for hellfire…thought you were trying to stir things up.

SATAN
Oh no! Are you kidding? I’d be just as happy to wash my hands clean of that place. Those evil buggers are coming up with ideas I couldn’t even conjure up! The whole planet, all those people: I’m done with them all. You should see the types I’m getting in Hell these days. Real bastards. We’re not talking your average run-of-the-mill bastards; I’m talking real assholes.

(GOD and SATAN are sitting across from one another and BOYFRIEND takes the seat in between at the head of the table. BOYFRIEND sets mug down on table in front of SATAN.)

BOYFRIEND
(To SATAN) Be careful; it’s hot!

SATAN
(To BOYFRIEND) Oh, thank you, doll.

(SATAN carefully sips her coffee and continues.)

SATAN
And, yanno, I thought Hitler would be the end of it. When he came through my fiery gates I almost wanted to turn him away. “Hell’s closed,” I said to myself, but…what are ya gonna do?

GOD
How is Adolph doing, anyway? He’s the one that made me rethink my whole “humans should have free will” philosophy.

SATAN
Well, therapy seems to be doing him some good. He’s working through his mommy issues. I got someone to show him how to shave properly.

GOD
Wonderful! He was also the one who made me rethink facial hair as a prominent male feature. (Looks at BOYFRIEND) But I just love his five o’clock shadow.

(GOD pinches BOYFRIEND’s cheek. BOYFRIEND grins happily and makes a kissy faces.)

GOD
(To SATAN, distressed) Oh, Beelze, I just don’t know what to do anymore. I am a merciful being. I don’t punish harshly. Hell! If I denied salvation to everyone who had sex before marriage, I’d be joining your ranks. –

SATAN
Oh, you’re welcome any time! –

GOD
I’ve loosened the rules for them and all I really ask for is that they not kill my creations: themselves…and the planet they inhabit. Is that asking too much?

SATAN
Heavens no! And I sympathize, hun, I do. Look, as far as I’m concerned you should just give them their Goddamn apocalypse already…no offence.

GOD
If only it were that easy. Yanno, Jesus is so preoccupied with his band these days that if I even mention the idea of a second coming he gets all annoyed with me.

(SATAN pops up and grabs a newspaper from atop the kitchen counter. As she speaks, she holds the paper in one hand and points at it with her free hand. Then, she slams it on the table with the word: “Incorrectly.”)

SATAN
Well, has he been keeping up with the news lately? I mean: the Jews are back in the Promised Land. Granted, he didn’t put them there, but…the humans don’t seem to actually care what their God wants anymore. They just go on assuming and interpreting. Incorrectly.

(SATAN takes her seat at the table back.)

GOD
I know! Who knew Moses’ stutter would cause such misunderstandings. Not one of my best moves, I must admit.

(BOYFRIEND picks up newspaper and begins shuffling through the sections. He picks one a reads to himself as GOD and SATAN continue their conversation.)

BOYFRIEND
(Peering over newspaper at GOD) Ahh, you can’t blame yourself for this. Or Moses. There is no way – through any upside down human translation – that you ever requested the killing of people.

GOD
Did you hear that America is sending more troops? More of my young kids are gonna die!

SATAN
I’m telling you: they want the end of the world? Go give it to ‘em! Start with a clean slate. What are you really destroying anyway? (SATAN waits momentarily for an answer) Nothing you can’t easily replace! Destroy it all: their gas guzzling SUVs, their bombs, their tanks. But don’t do any of this flood shit – .

GOD
Oh, I already promised no more floods. But, whom would I save? I don’t want to save any of these wretched people. None of them get it. None of them love me just because it feels good and is right. (GOD glances at BOYFRIEND) Well, except for you. (GOD grazes BOYFRIEND’s face with a gentle hand) All they care about is salvation, salvation, salvation.

BOYFRIEND
(Lowering newspaper, still clutching the edges) Oh, hun, I’m sure they love you. I sure do! And if they don’t, they just don’t know what they’re missing. They are all very misguided, busy people.

GOD
And that’s another thing! (GOD begins to get riled up) Why are they all so busy all the time, rushing around? Don’t they know I’ve created some of the most beautiful sceneries in the entire universe just for them? Don’t they know books and music were created for their enjoyment?

(GOD jumps out of her seat, disgustedly. Having finished her coffee, she places the mug in the dishwasher and slams the dishwasher’s door shut.)

SATAN
(Watching GOD fidget with the dishwasher) Obviously not. It’s a damn shame too. Yanno, I recently revisited Mount Everest for the first time in centuries. It’s really a magnificent sight.

GOD
(Leaning against the kitchen counter located behind the table, GOD looks at SATAN and begins to tear up a little) Ohhh, Beelze. Thank you. (Walks over to the sitting SATAN, another embrace) I put a lot of work into that, but people these days are too fat and busy to take time to climb some silly old mountain anymore.

(GOD, still anxious and upset, walks to the refrigerator and searches it for a bottle of water. GOD pulls out a plastic bottle and fiddles with the cap which refuses to twist off and adds to her frustration.)

SATAN
That’s why I’m saying: destroy them all. Those ungrateful little bastards can’t appreciate the world they live in. They’re all so worried about the end? Well, give ‘em something to worry about.

BOYFRIEND
(To GOD) Let me get that.

(BOYFRIEND lowers the newspaper, grabs the bottle, and twists the cap off. He then hands it back to the flustered deity and continues reading his article.)

GOD
(Back at her post, leaning against the counter; to SATAN) I don’t know. I like being thought of as forgiving.

SATAN
I know, El, but sometimes even good kids need a spanking.

(SATAN stands and walks over to GOD. SATAN rubs GOD’s shoulders in an attempt to comfort her.)

GOD
Ugh…and all the paper work.

SATAN
Well, yeah, there will be a lot of paperwork.

GOD
And all their screaming, their begging for forgiveness. All their desperate last minute attempts to try to convince me they really do love me, that they really are moral people, interested in doing good things for their fellow men. All their lies…as if I’m not the all knowing!

SATAN
Human screaming is the worst. I get the worst headaches ever from human screaming.

GOD
Oh, I know. Isn’t it the worst?

SATAN
The worst!

GOD
Heaven is dealing with overcrowding, too: centuries of use without any upgrades. I let anyone in who attempted to do good deeds in his life, even if he didn’t always believe in me in his heart. (GOD whispers) To tell you a secret, I’ve even been letting atheists in. Some of those guys have done some pretty impressive stuff. (Back in her normal tone) But, I suppose since I am God, I can always put in a work order to expand Heaven. Again.

SATAN
Hell is dealing with overcrowding too…mainly your people. Haha. Who would have thought? You’re merciful to atheists and I’m damning believers!

GOD
I know: some crazy irony! I’d rather deal with your people than mine.

SATAN
So would I. (SATAN looks down, ponderously) So, I suppose if you brought about the apocalypse…I’d be…uh…seeing a few more of those types?

GOD
You’d be seeing more than a few. You’d probably wind up with most of the Earthy population of believers. It’s a repulsive amount of people who claim to love me and go directly against what I said.

(GOD sits back down at the table and SATAN follows suit, but they have switch chairs.)

SATAN
Well, maybe you could send someone down there…you know…to straighten them out? Send Mohammed or something. Then maybe the Muslims will cool it with their “Sharia is the only proper law” thing and maybe the Christians will back off. Tell Mohammed to tell them all to chill out.

GOD
Remember what happened the last time I sent a prophet to straighten them all out? Remember how I used to only have to worry about the Jews and then they all split into a hundred new sects, impossible to keep track of!? Remember how they…yanno…nailed Jesus to a tree!?

SATAN
(Disappointed) Oh, yeah.

BOYFRIEND
Ouch, yeah, sucks to be that dude.

GOD
No, yanno, maybe you’re right, Beelze. Maybe those little rats do deserve the second coming, but boy are the going to regret it.

(GOD stands up and begins to pace with excitement in the space between the kitchen counter and the table.)

SATAN
Oh, El, don’t be so hasty. I mean: you did create that planet and all its inhabitants. It’d kind of be like killing your own child for wetting the bed.

GOD
You cannot equate war and murder with wetting the bed! (To BOYFRIEND who has been half listening to the conversation; GOD pokes BOYFRIEND in the back with her finger to indicate he should take his nose out of the newspaper) What do you think?

(BOYFRIEND folds up the newspaper, stands, and leans against the counter.)

BOYFRIEND
I don’t know, Fluffypoo; when you told them I wasn’t a deity and that I didn’t exist, I sorta stopped paying attention to those humans down there.

GOD
(To SATAN) See? Damn misinterpretations! (To BOYFRIEND, upset; she stops pacing and stands shoulder-to-shoulder with BOYFRIEND) I never meant to convince them you didn’t exist! I still thought some of them would believe in you! I only said: “you shall have no other gods before me.” I never said you didn’t exist or that you were a bad guy!

(BOYFRIEND rests his arm around GOD.)

BOYFRIEND
Oh, honey bear, I’m not upset with you! I’m grateful, really. I wouldn’t want to have to deal with any of those pricks down there now!

(GOD huffs back over to the table and sits back down across from SATAN in the seat in which SATAN had originally sat.)

GOD
How is it possible that I created a planet full of fools?

SATAN
You were young, El. You didn’t understand what a massive responsibility Creation would be. But you know you can’t just give up on it all now.

GOD
But why not? The purpose of human existence is to live a good, moral life in which you love your neighbor as your brother and you love your God because it fills you with joy. The human experience does not reflect that at all. Instead, they kill and say it’s for me. Well, I don’t want your blood! Your killing makes me feel dirty! Maybe Earth could be my first draft. Maybe I’ll get an A the next time around.

SATAN
No, no! Come on. What about the Amazon Rain Forest, the Grand Canyon? What about the Great Barrier Reef and Niagara Falls? And what about the UN…and Doctors Without Borders? Those are a couple great causes and they’re manmade!

GOD
Well, I did always appreciate sweaty doctors working for a good cause. (BOYFRIEND, feeling a little slighted, clears his throat; to BOYFRIEND) Oh, I always appreciate you all hot and sweaty too, darling.

(BOYFRIEND smiles and walks to the refrigerator. He opens the door and shuffles around.)

SATAN
I say: you just let those silly humans down there work this thing out.

GOD
But how much more killing is it going to take? How many more wars? They no longer deserve my forgiveness or my patience.

SATAN
But damning them all on a whim isn’t fair.

(BOYFRIEND pulls out container of orange juice.)

BOYFRIEND
Anything to drink, El? Beelze?

SATAN
(To BOYFRIEND) A water would be splendid.

GOD
(To BOYFRIEND) No thanks, hun. (To SATAN) Look, I gave them guidance and they misread it. I gave them prophets to listen to and they didn’t. I’ve given them any number of things for which all I have asked in return was a little respect. Instead, I have a planet full of selfish little pigs.

SATAN
Hey, at least the whole planet isn’t American, right!?

GOD
Oh! And those Americans! Don’t even get me started! Some superpower they are! They have the ability to make the world so much better, so much healthier. But do they? No!

SATAN
You can’t fix the world in a day, El.

(BOYFRIEND pours himself a glass of orange juice. Then, he untwists another cap off a plastic water bottle and hands the bottle to SATAN. He takes his glass and sits back down in his seat.)

SATAN
(To BOYFRIEND) Thanks so much.

GOD
(To SATAN) Their idea of creating a better tomorrow is electing the right singer for American Idol! I present them with choices – because I think that’s only fair – and they elect the nincompoop to higher office instead of the one with good human rights and environmental records. They all make foolish decisions and if I don’t destroy the world, they’re going to do it themselves!

BOYFRIEND
I’m with ya, El. Screw ‘em. God giveth and God can taketh away. “Fire and brimstone” their asses.

SATAN
(To BOYFRIEND, sharply) Oh, now you have an opinion! (To GOD, caringly) Just think good and hard about this. You’ve been working for billions of years on this projects –”

GOD
And it’s a failure!

SATAN
Don’t be so hard on yourself. Patience, El, patience.

(GOD stands in defiance.)

GOD
No, Beelze. I think I’m done being a carefree deity. You’re right. If it’s apocalypse they want, then it’s apocalypse they shall get!