Your body needs a rest,
but your mind will get the best
of any lie you dole out
until you shake and shout.
Prolificacy
is a sin, you see,
but what matters most
is that meddling ghost
behind your eyes,
muted and paralyzed.
Measured words - like incantations - shoo
away the demons haunting you.
A proverb, a poem, a lullaby,
lingering tales, then a sweet goodbye:
a sentence with resolve
and your specters dissolve.
Sweet dreams, momentarily.
'Til you wake warily.
Razor blade daydreams:
your muse, it seems
and now you can't stand
the blood on your hands.
It's a story untold
or too folded to unfold:
tuck it tightly twixt your teeth:
hide the secrets underneath.
Hold your breath and just pretend
that you control the way this ends.
**********************************************
This is about all the things you try to do when you're feeling your weakest, but sometimes it gets the best of you anyway.
"'Let a vast assembly be,
And with great solemnity
Declare with measured words that ye
Are, as God has made ye, free -"
P.B. Shelley The Mask Of Anarchy (Seriously, read this poem and ponder upon it.)
"He has a halo, for dreams return to dust. Words dissolve on the page like tears in blood." Sunny Day Real Estate Rodeo Jones
"When your mother sends back all your invitations and your father to your sister he explains that you're tired of yourself and all of your creations: won't you come see me, Queen Jane? Won't you come see me, Queen Jane?" Bob Dylan Queen Jane, Approximately
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Monday, June 22, 2009
Road Maps And Mixtapes
Ghost towns and highways,
from ocean to ocean:
it's the life we live
and the places we've been.
An artist's tribute
in headphones and hearts
reminds me of how
we're not so far apart.
Kindred spirits
can always find
their way back to each other
in due time.
Road maps and mix tapes
eclipse the gap
and parallel for now
travel our paths.
In the span of space
from rhythm to rhyme,
cacti to pine,
and the hours that
without regard
pass us by,
I lay awake
and hum a tune
that was written by you
and - to me - rings true.
A lullaby
and we'll be fine:
sleep peacefully
all through the night.
*************************************
While I'm revealed I don't have a "tour" this summer (because I'm poor and also just got a job from which I can't just take three weeks off), I miss the road. This is about driving to weird places and it's about why it's worth it. It's also about finding something to help you sleep at night.
"You'll taste it in time. You'll taste it...it time." Sunny Day Real Estate Seven
"Sleep peacefully. Like the way you look this morning. With faith in your eyes and me in your hands: a whispered promise in your heart. Lullaby for a snow-faced girl is what I'll sing watching you, the whole time. It's three-o-five on Monday morning...or is it night? I don't know. Is it night? I don't know. We'll be fine. We'll be fine. We'll be fine. We'll be fine. We'll be fine." Kevin Devine Lullaby For A Snow-Faced Girl
from ocean to ocean:
it's the life we live
and the places we've been.
An artist's tribute
in headphones and hearts
reminds me of how
we're not so far apart.
Kindred spirits
can always find
their way back to each other
in due time.
Road maps and mix tapes
eclipse the gap
and parallel for now
travel our paths.
In the span of space
from rhythm to rhyme,
cacti to pine,
and the hours that
without regard
pass us by,
I lay awake
and hum a tune
that was written by you
and - to me - rings true.
A lullaby
and we'll be fine:
sleep peacefully
all through the night.
*************************************
While I'm revealed I don't have a "tour" this summer (because I'm poor and also just got a job from which I can't just take three weeks off), I miss the road. This is about driving to weird places and it's about why it's worth it. It's also about finding something to help you sleep at night.
"You'll taste it in time. You'll taste it...it time." Sunny Day Real Estate Seven
"Sleep peacefully. Like the way you look this morning. With faith in your eyes and me in your hands: a whispered promise in your heart. Lullaby for a snow-faced girl is what I'll sing watching you, the whole time. It's three-o-five on Monday morning...or is it night? I don't know. Is it night? I don't know. We'll be fine. We'll be fine. We'll be fine. We'll be fine. We'll be fine." Kevin Devine Lullaby For A Snow-Faced Girl
Tuesday, June 09, 2009
Taut We Remain
If we're all in this together
then I'm no more dead than you.
I loved as best I could
from so many miles away.
And the distance between us, dear,
well that's just the price we pay
for honor
and sin
(and look at the mess we're in)
and the solutions discovered wherein
dissolve
like our bonds.
But taut we remain
still
despite the heavy rain
and the awkward pain.
Sunshine seeps through panes
and reminds us how clear
vision can be
in hindsight.
This might
be the eye of the storm
or the eyes staring at me
from that table across the bar.
You leave me guessing:
forever haunted,
forever hunted,
a forever of only one.
Life and death
equate in sleep
and sleepless nights
scare me to death.
Windows and doors
and wiley floorboards
sing cautious lullabies
of how my heart defies
reason.
Is there something to believe in?
Are my lung still breathing?
What's wrong with me, then?
************************************
I know is should say "Is there something in which to believe?," but "believe" doesn't rhyme as nicely with "reason," so deal with it.
"Ugh...liiiiiike, I don't know." Exactly. I don't know. This plagued me for a couple of weeks and I don't know if the outcome matters at all, if it was worth all the trouble. This is about things that won't die; it about resilience. But it's also about the strain of that resilience. Lots of things feel unstable and messy right now yet everything seems to be staying in place, for better or for worse.
I found this interesting:
Taut -
[–adjective, -er, -est.]
1. tightly drawn; tense; not slack.
2. emotionally or mentally strained or tense: taut nerves.
3. in good order or condition; tidy; neat.
[Courtesy of http://www.dictionary.com: http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/taut]
...those seems like sort of an ironic mesh of meanings for this little word.
"The people you've been before that you don't want around anymore. They push and shove and won't bend to your will. I'll keep them still." Elliott Smith Between The Bars
"Peace, be still." Pedro The Lion Secret Of The Easy Yoke
"What's a bond if it dissolves in water?" Saves The Day My Sweet Fracture
then I'm no more dead than you.
I loved as best I could
from so many miles away.
And the distance between us, dear,
well that's just the price we pay
for honor
and sin
(and look at the mess we're in)
and the solutions discovered wherein
dissolve
like our bonds.
But taut we remain
still
despite the heavy rain
and the awkward pain.
Sunshine seeps through panes
and reminds us how clear
vision can be
in hindsight.
This might
be the eye of the storm
or the eyes staring at me
from that table across the bar.
You leave me guessing:
forever haunted,
forever hunted,
a forever of only one.
Life and death
equate in sleep
and sleepless nights
scare me to death.
Windows and doors
and wiley floorboards
sing cautious lullabies
of how my heart defies
reason.
Is there something to believe in?
Are my lung still breathing?
What's wrong with me, then?
************************************
I know is should say "Is there something in which to believe?," but "believe" doesn't rhyme as nicely with "reason," so deal with it.
"Ugh...liiiiiike, I don't know." Exactly. I don't know. This plagued me for a couple of weeks and I don't know if the outcome matters at all, if it was worth all the trouble. This is about things that won't die; it about resilience. But it's also about the strain of that resilience. Lots of things feel unstable and messy right now yet everything seems to be staying in place, for better or for worse.
I found this interesting:
Taut -
[–adjective, -er, -est.]
1. tightly drawn; tense; not slack.
2. emotionally or mentally strained or tense: taut nerves.
3. in good order or condition; tidy; neat.
[Courtesy of http://www.dictionary.com: http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/taut]
...those seems like sort of an ironic mesh of meanings for this little word.
"The people you've been before that you don't want around anymore. They push and shove and won't bend to your will. I'll keep them still." Elliott Smith Between The Bars
"Peace, be still." Pedro The Lion Secret Of The Easy Yoke
"What's a bond if it dissolves in water?" Saves The Day My Sweet Fracture
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Consequence
Shape shifting shards of sanity
steal what's left of her reality.
Blues and grays
and passed on days
feel like eternity
weighted with scum and debris.
Your shadow in a haze:
she still loves your gaze.
Rare truths spoken
as righteous tokens
to the girl who longed
(perpetually wronged).
From a dream, awoken:
her fantasy life broken.
She thought she belonged;
it's sorrow prolonged.
But she pulls on her socks
though Consequence knocks
her off her feet:
there's a face she hopes to meet.
He's secured with locks
and hidden in a box
so he'll stay fresh and sweet,
away from misery and deceit.
His visage pleases her:
comfort in a blur.
He's hers alone to view,
but his whispers are untrue.
Promises that never were
inside her cause a stir
and she knows something's askew,
but she'll say she never knew.
He rips through her rib cage
with inconspicuous rage
and drops her heart
like it's just another part:
a war she did not expect to wage
and in which she's unqualified to engage.
She used to be so smart
before he picked her brain apart.
In Oblivion she'll now reside
with a book and a pen by her side.
Consequence claims another soul,
another shining smile he stole.
It's time to hide
to keep her pride
inside her cozy hole
where - at least - she's in control.
*********************************************************
Light twists,
heart skips a beat:
through all this destruction
who knows what you'll be?
*********************************************************
Parts of this have been in my head for a few days. These poems are getting tougher for me to describe: sometimes because I'm not sure what they're about and sometimes because I just don't want to talk about it. I guess it's about recognizing a pattern of unfortunate situations and the consequences of such situations over time. Eventually, it all becomes predictable and almost surreal.
"Goodbye to sleep. I think this staying up is exactly what I need. Take apart your head; take apart the counting and the flock it has bred..." Brand New Degausser
"To vanish into oblivion is easy to do and I try to be, but you know me; I come back when you want me to. Do you miss me, miss misery, like you say you do?" Elliott Smith Miss Misery
"In the depths of my gloom, I crawl out for you. From the peaks of my joy, I crawl back into: tearing me down every time you smile, every shining time you arrive." Sunny Day Real Estate Every Shining Time You Arrive
steal what's left of her reality.
Blues and grays
and passed on days
feel like eternity
weighted with scum and debris.
Your shadow in a haze:
she still loves your gaze.
Rare truths spoken
as righteous tokens
to the girl who longed
(perpetually wronged).
From a dream, awoken:
her fantasy life broken.
She thought she belonged;
it's sorrow prolonged.
But she pulls on her socks
though Consequence knocks
her off her feet:
there's a face she hopes to meet.
He's secured with locks
and hidden in a box
so he'll stay fresh and sweet,
away from misery and deceit.
His visage pleases her:
comfort in a blur.
He's hers alone to view,
but his whispers are untrue.
Promises that never were
inside her cause a stir
and she knows something's askew,
but she'll say she never knew.
He rips through her rib cage
with inconspicuous rage
and drops her heart
like it's just another part:
a war she did not expect to wage
and in which she's unqualified to engage.
She used to be so smart
before he picked her brain apart.
In Oblivion she'll now reside
with a book and a pen by her side.
Consequence claims another soul,
another shining smile he stole.
It's time to hide
to keep her pride
inside her cozy hole
where - at least - she's in control.
*********************************************************
Light twists,
heart skips a beat:
through all this destruction
who knows what you'll be?
*********************************************************
Parts of this have been in my head for a few days. These poems are getting tougher for me to describe: sometimes because I'm not sure what they're about and sometimes because I just don't want to talk about it. I guess it's about recognizing a pattern of unfortunate situations and the consequences of such situations over time. Eventually, it all becomes predictable and almost surreal.
"Goodbye to sleep. I think this staying up is exactly what I need. Take apart your head; take apart the counting and the flock it has bred..." Brand New Degausser
"To vanish into oblivion is easy to do and I try to be, but you know me; I come back when you want me to. Do you miss me, miss misery, like you say you do?" Elliott Smith Miss Misery
"In the depths of my gloom, I crawl out for you. From the peaks of my joy, I crawl back into: tearing me down every time you smile, every shining time you arrive." Sunny Day Real Estate Every Shining Time You Arrive
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Wonder Why
I'm not okay, but I will be.
It's a fine line you can't see.
Absurdity
is fond of me.
Hanged with a belt around my throat,
I'm reading your note
and embarrassed letters I wrote
into words of love so remote.
Now drowning under tidal waves
of questions and regrets I stave
off sorrow, but within I cave.
I am not brave,
only broken and stubborn.
It's not of your concern.
It's a lesson I learn and unlearn
and either way I'm left to burn.
On a desk is a picture of us
which I leave you as a posthumous
gift of my naivety and hubris.
Characteristics you won't miss
anyway,
but you may remember someday
when things aren't going your way
and language is no longer your forte.
Will it matter to you
when I lay with a gray hue?
Will you be shaken by the view?
Will you claim you never knew?
It's a long goodbye:
that which has no reply,
for people who don't try.
I will wonder why.
******************************************
This was not what I was supposed to be doing today. Ummm...it's about what you think it's about. Except I'm not actually dead. It's about being an impossible person and facing an impossible situation. It's about how it's never what it appears to be and probably never will be. At least for certain people. At least for me. It's sort of like "lol, me," but also "wtf, me?!"
Also, I sort of miss JamisonParker. Bring it back.
"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. So burn, so burn, so burn..." Kevin Devine Time To Burn (foreverandalways)
"Cut this picture into you and me, burn it backwards kill this history..." Elliott Smith Sweet Adeline
"I live in notes and photographs and everything I'm holding back like all the words that weren't enough; you remind me of a song I used to love..." JamisonParker Your Song
It's a fine line you can't see.
Absurdity
is fond of me.
Hanged with a belt around my throat,
I'm reading your note
and embarrassed letters I wrote
into words of love so remote.
Now drowning under tidal waves
of questions and regrets I stave
off sorrow, but within I cave.
I am not brave,
only broken and stubborn.
It's not of your concern.
It's a lesson I learn and unlearn
and either way I'm left to burn.
On a desk is a picture of us
which I leave you as a posthumous
gift of my naivety and hubris.
Characteristics you won't miss
anyway,
but you may remember someday
when things aren't going your way
and language is no longer your forte.
Will it matter to you
when I lay with a gray hue?
Will you be shaken by the view?
Will you claim you never knew?
It's a long goodbye:
that which has no reply,
for people who don't try.
I will wonder why.
******************************************
This was not what I was supposed to be doing today. Ummm...it's about what you think it's about. Except I'm not actually dead. It's about being an impossible person and facing an impossible situation. It's about how it's never what it appears to be and probably never will be. At least for certain people. At least for me. It's sort of like "lol, me," but also "wtf, me?!"
Also, I sort of miss JamisonParker. Bring it back.
"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. So burn, so burn, so burn..." Kevin Devine Time To Burn (foreverandalways)
"Cut this picture into you and me, burn it backwards kill this history..." Elliott Smith Sweet Adeline
"I live in notes and photographs and everything I'm holding back like all the words that weren't enough; you remind me of a song I used to love..." JamisonParker Your Song
Monday, May 11, 2009
Love In Dances
She's reading her book
and that look that you threw
and the dagger in her tongue
is of no concern to you.
It's times like these
when silence means everything,
so she's passive and patient
despite the taste and the sting.
But inside her grows
a cancerous mass
of unuttered thoughts
mixed with poisonous gas
that tortures and tears
and remembers the glares
of eyes soft and faces fair;
all the thoughts she couldn't bear.
Photos of imagined memories
haunt her in her sleep.
She wants to scream,
but can't make a peep.
She's a ghost in a fairy tale;
there is no happy ending
for her:
just past and present blending.
It's like you never said a word:
speech through glances
and funny looks,
love in dances.
She cries.
Her tired eyes
shift to hide
their lies.
************************************
I don't know why I'm posting this one.
But - hey! look! - there are stanzas in this one! I haven't done that in a while!
"It's times like these when silence means everything and no one is to know about this..." Taking Back Sunday Ghost Man On Third
"I'm the family's unowned boy, golden curls of envied hair, pretty girls with faces fair see the shine in the black sheep boy..." Tim Hardin Black Sheep Boy
and that look that you threw
and the dagger in her tongue
is of no concern to you.
It's times like these
when silence means everything,
so she's passive and patient
despite the taste and the sting.
But inside her grows
a cancerous mass
of unuttered thoughts
mixed with poisonous gas
that tortures and tears
and remembers the glares
of eyes soft and faces fair;
all the thoughts she couldn't bear.
Photos of imagined memories
haunt her in her sleep.
She wants to scream,
but can't make a peep.
She's a ghost in a fairy tale;
there is no happy ending
for her:
just past and present blending.
It's like you never said a word:
speech through glances
and funny looks,
love in dances.
She cries.
Her tired eyes
shift to hide
their lies.
************************************
I don't know why I'm posting this one.
But - hey! look! - there are stanzas in this one! I haven't done that in a while!
"It's times like these when silence means everything and no one is to know about this..." Taking Back Sunday Ghost Man On Third
"I'm the family's unowned boy, golden curls of envied hair, pretty girls with faces fair see the shine in the black sheep boy..." Tim Hardin Black Sheep Boy
Thursday, May 07, 2009
Songs And Cigarettes
A new face,
a soul reborn:
from a carcass
I am torn.
Such bloody symmetry
is what remains of me
in muddled minutes
when no word fits.
Repetitive at best,
I make the wrong bets.
I hear your threats
over songs and cigarettes.
Played like your marionettes
or hidden under silhouettes
my breath is shallow
as I'm hung from these gallows.
Branches and bones break
and one last breath I take.
Passers-by will dream and wonder
how long 'til I am torn asunder.
Come dance with me
under this killing tree
where I will be
eternally.
***************************************************
^ What I did while I should have been working on my short story.
I'm really not that depressed. Honestly. But when Gordon Schochet recognizes that a strength of mine is writing "dark," I feel like maybe that's something on which I should focus.
Is it bad that it comes relatively naturally?
"Sew it on. Face the fool. The mirrors lie - those aren't my eyes - destroy them, raise my hand. Reflected in savage shards: a new face, a soul reborn..." Sunny Day Real Estate Seven
"I dreamed another dream and I was free and no sorrow can find me under that killing tree as I wait for my true love..." AA Bondy Killing Tree
a soul reborn:
from a carcass
I am torn.
Such bloody symmetry
is what remains of me
in muddled minutes
when no word fits.
Repetitive at best,
I make the wrong bets.
I hear your threats
over songs and cigarettes.
Played like your marionettes
or hidden under silhouettes
my breath is shallow
as I'm hung from these gallows.
Branches and bones break
and one last breath I take.
Passers-by will dream and wonder
how long 'til I am torn asunder.
Come dance with me
under this killing tree
where I will be
eternally.
***************************************************
^ What I did while I should have been working on my short story.
I'm really not that depressed. Honestly. But when Gordon Schochet recognizes that a strength of mine is writing "dark," I feel like maybe that's something on which I should focus.
Is it bad that it comes relatively naturally?
"Sew it on. Face the fool. The mirrors lie - those aren't my eyes - destroy them, raise my hand. Reflected in savage shards: a new face, a soul reborn..." Sunny Day Real Estate Seven
"I dreamed another dream and I was free and no sorrow can find me under that killing tree as I wait for my true love..." AA Bondy Killing Tree
Tuesday, May 05, 2009
Bloodshot Beauty
Broken artist's soul,
now you understand it all.
Red splatters against the wall:
you've seen the rise; you've seen the fall.
The bloody brain matter brawl -
away from which you were lucky to crawl -
left welts and scratches
from wrestling matches
in which you were over matched
and underestimated.
You hated
and seethed
and choked on air
unhealthy to breathe.
Pure water eyes
use pale lids for disguise,
your bloodshot beauty:
now too horrific to see.
Your lungs filled up with paint
and your muscles seized without restraint.
A God above you - a saint -
appears as you begin to faint.
As the blue bird sky sinks
into solemn silence,
I think,
I will dream of such violence.
**********************************************
I've written a few poems recently, but none were any good. Not that this one is, per se, but I need to get back on the wagon at some point, right?
"You turned white like a saint. I'm tired of dancing on a pot of gold-flaked paint. Oh we're so very precious, you and I, and everything that you do makes me want to die. Oh, I just told the biggest lie..." Elliott Smith The Biggest Lie
"And I dream of Michelangelo when I'm lying in my bed. I see God upon the ceiling; I see angels overhead. And he seems so close as he reaches out his hand, but we are never quite as close as we are led to understand..." Counting Crows When I Dream Of Michelangelo
"It's my brother's blood in my dirty lungs, in my crooked mouth, on my swollen tongue, on my father's gun, on each stranger's face, across the blue bird sky, on every hand I shake..." Kevin Devine Brother's Blood
now you understand it all.
Red splatters against the wall:
you've seen the rise; you've seen the fall.
The bloody brain matter brawl -
away from which you were lucky to crawl -
left welts and scratches
from wrestling matches
in which you were over matched
and underestimated.
You hated
and seethed
and choked on air
unhealthy to breathe.
Pure water eyes
use pale lids for disguise,
your bloodshot beauty:
now too horrific to see.
Your lungs filled up with paint
and your muscles seized without restraint.
A God above you - a saint -
appears as you begin to faint.
As the blue bird sky sinks
into solemn silence,
I think,
I will dream of such violence.
**********************************************
I've written a few poems recently, but none were any good. Not that this one is, per se, but I need to get back on the wagon at some point, right?
"You turned white like a saint. I'm tired of dancing on a pot of gold-flaked paint. Oh we're so very precious, you and I, and everything that you do makes me want to die. Oh, I just told the biggest lie..." Elliott Smith The Biggest Lie
"And I dream of Michelangelo when I'm lying in my bed. I see God upon the ceiling; I see angels overhead. And he seems so close as he reaches out his hand, but we are never quite as close as we are led to understand..." Counting Crows When I Dream Of Michelangelo
"It's my brother's blood in my dirty lungs, in my crooked mouth, on my swollen tongue, on my father's gun, on each stranger's face, across the blue bird sky, on every hand I shake..." Kevin Devine Brother's Blood
Monday, March 02, 2009
So Many Things That Never Worked
Running backwards,
chasing cars,
blaring music,
thousands more,
hot rush of smoke,
and a blinding fear:
the issues that
have led us here.
A limerick that
I couldn't sing,
a gift to you,
I couldn't bring,
a carrier pigeon
who dropped his note,
a cursing sailor
who lost his boat:
I am so many things
that never worked.
I jerked
and threw away
what wouldn't stay
or ran away
anyway.
Today,
on snowy fields
on back roads
in country lands
where promises bestowed
are daily broken
(my rightful token)
there are girls and boys
happily making noise,
and holding cold hands
and making grandiose plans.
My toes are numb
and my nose is red
and I'm swallowing truths
I never said.
***********************************************
"Don't ask me nothin' about nothin'. I just might tell you the truth." Bob Dylan Outlaw Blues
chasing cars,
blaring music,
thousands more,
hot rush of smoke,
and a blinding fear:
the issues that
have led us here.
A limerick that
I couldn't sing,
a gift to you,
I couldn't bring,
a carrier pigeon
who dropped his note,
a cursing sailor
who lost his boat:
I am so many things
that never worked.
I jerked
and threw away
what wouldn't stay
or ran away
anyway.
Today,
on snowy fields
on back roads
in country lands
where promises bestowed
are daily broken
(my rightful token)
there are girls and boys
happily making noise,
and holding cold hands
and making grandiose plans.
My toes are numb
and my nose is red
and I'm swallowing truths
I never said.
***********************************************
"Don't ask me nothin' about nothin'. I just might tell you the truth." Bob Dylan Outlaw Blues
Friday, February 27, 2009
Miles Behind Us
There are simple things
that make us move;
they change our shapes,
make us love like fools.
You see your reflection
in the pools of her eyes,
as if that's the only place
wherein your silhouette is safe.
That unfamiliar feeling
is her own heart beating
and that mess in the mirror
cleans up pretty well,
but she'll scoff as she walks
and she'll hide as she talks.
That which -
by any other standards -
are deemed unequivocal,
she questions the most...
as if questions
bring forth truths.
Your hand on hers is true
and so is that grin from across the room,
but so are the endless silences
and all those miles behind us.
**********************************************
"Yesterday, I watched you leave ten seconds too late. Yesterday." The Movielife Ten Seconds Too Late
that make us move;
they change our shapes,
make us love like fools.
You see your reflection
in the pools of her eyes,
as if that's the only place
wherein your silhouette is safe.
That unfamiliar feeling
is her own heart beating
and that mess in the mirror
cleans up pretty well,
but she'll scoff as she walks
and she'll hide as she talks.
That which -
by any other standards -
are deemed unequivocal,
she questions the most...
as if questions
bring forth truths.
Your hand on hers is true
and so is that grin from across the room,
but so are the endless silences
and all those miles behind us.
**********************************************
"Yesterday, I watched you leave ten seconds too late. Yesterday." The Movielife Ten Seconds Too Late
Friday, February 13, 2009
Light I Lit
The sound of your voice
fades in and out,
but I guess I believe you
without a doubt.
There are so many words
you know nothing about
and - like a child held captive -
I'll scream and shout.
You think you're so smooth,
but you lack class and clout.
Souring, searching, but
stuck so still,
motionless waves that
claim their kill,
I'm hungry and hunted;
you'll get your fill.
Your shadow behind me:
the chase is your thrill.
Once, I thought it made sense;
it was a perfect fit,
but you showed your knives
and you threw and it hit
and you outsmarted me
with your charm and wit.
But you're soft and you're warm
and what I know I can't admit,
so when you're on your way back home
follow that light I lit.
*************************************************
"This little light of mine, shine bright and blind the reaper's eyes, hear you stomping on the tops of pines. We rest as death lays on his knife." Wild Sweet Orange An Atlas To Follow
"'If it wasn't for the mist we could see your home across the bay,' said Gatsby. 'You always have a green light that burns all night at the end of your dock.'" F.S. Scott Fitzgerald The Great Gatsby
fades in and out,
but I guess I believe you
without a doubt.
There are so many words
you know nothing about
and - like a child held captive -
I'll scream and shout.
You think you're so smooth,
but you lack class and clout.
Souring, searching, but
stuck so still,
motionless waves that
claim their kill,
I'm hungry and hunted;
you'll get your fill.
Your shadow behind me:
the chase is your thrill.
Once, I thought it made sense;
it was a perfect fit,
but you showed your knives
and you threw and it hit
and you outsmarted me
with your charm and wit.
But you're soft and you're warm
and what I know I can't admit,
so when you're on your way back home
follow that light I lit.
*************************************************
"This little light of mine, shine bright and blind the reaper's eyes, hear you stomping on the tops of pines. We rest as death lays on his knife." Wild Sweet Orange An Atlas To Follow
"'If it wasn't for the mist we could see your home across the bay,' said Gatsby. 'You always have a green light that burns all night at the end of your dock.'" F.S. Scott Fitzgerald The Great Gatsby
Monday, February 02, 2009
Get Your Way
Keep far away from me
like I'm diseased and contagious.
Already at an arm's length,
I'm still a threat, still dangerous.
I want your smell, your taste,
though I know that's outrageous.
It's a constant stream of
knowing and never knowing
that keeps my thoughts
flowing and over flowing
like you can't make up your mind
while mine is going and growing.
Hold me close
then throw me aside.
"I want in!"
I haplessly cried.
And with silence
you amply replied.
You had me fooled in
every step of the way.
And the smirk across your lips
is all you ever had to say.
If you really want to lose me,
you're about you get your way.
*************************************
Limerick-y, but...whatever. I figured a little bit of silly rhyming might mask my frustration a little. Haha. This has also been slightly edited just...because. Ask to see my notebook if you want to see the unedited version. There's only one line different; you're not missing too much. This was written over several days. I guess I'll slightly less frustrated now than when I began drafting it.
Also, this should probably be divided into four stanzas of six lines each, but I don't like stanzas much these days. When everything's blurry and confusing in reality, stanzas seem to take the point away a little. There is no organization in life. Life is just a stream of randomly occurring bullshit.
"I wonder how it's going to be when you don't know me. How's it going to be when you're sure I'm not there?" - Third Eye Blind How's It Gonna Be?
"Tell me what you want. I'll be it, darling it's anything you want, look no more. Just let me stay the night, I'll sleep on the floor. Tell me what you see, I'll see it even if, it's invisible to everyone. I think you know that I can see you girl, so don't fight it, love..." - Ultimate Fakebook TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT
Wilson: And that's why religious belief annoys you. Because if the universe operates by abstract rules you can learn them; you can protect yourself. If a Supreme Being exists, He can squash you any time He wants.
House: He knows where I am.
- Courtesy of yesterday's seventeen hour House marathon and http://www.housemdquotes.com/ [lol that this site exists, by the way...and that this is exactly the quote I was thinking of and I managed to find it in about three minutes]
Mrs. Lintott: And you, Rudge? How do you define history?
Rudge: Can I speak freely without being hit?
Mrs. Lintott: You have my protection.
Rudge: How do I define history? Well it's just one fucking thing after another.
...
Mrs. Lintott: History is a commentary on the various and continuing incapabilities of men. What is history? History is women following behind with the bucket.
- The History Boys [I really need to see this movie from start to finish...I keep missing the beginning.]
like I'm diseased and contagious.
Already at an arm's length,
I'm still a threat, still dangerous.
I want your smell, your taste,
though I know that's outrageous.
It's a constant stream of
knowing and never knowing
that keeps my thoughts
flowing and over flowing
like you can't make up your mind
while mine is going and growing.
Hold me close
then throw me aside.
"I want in!"
I haplessly cried.
And with silence
you amply replied.
You had me fooled in
every step of the way.
And the smirk across your lips
is all you ever had to say.
If you really want to lose me,
you're about you get your way.
*************************************
Limerick-y, but...whatever. I figured a little bit of silly rhyming might mask my frustration a little. Haha. This has also been slightly edited just...because. Ask to see my notebook if you want to see the unedited version. There's only one line different; you're not missing too much. This was written over several days. I guess I'll slightly less frustrated now than when I began drafting it.
Also, this should probably be divided into four stanzas of six lines each, but I don't like stanzas much these days. When everything's blurry and confusing in reality, stanzas seem to take the point away a little. There is no organization in life. Life is just a stream of randomly occurring bullshit.
"I wonder how it's going to be when you don't know me. How's it going to be when you're sure I'm not there?" - Third Eye Blind How's It Gonna Be?
"Tell me what you want. I'll be it, darling it's anything you want, look no more. Just let me stay the night, I'll sleep on the floor. Tell me what you see, I'll see it even if, it's invisible to everyone. I think you know that I can see you girl, so don't fight it, love..." - Ultimate Fakebook TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT
Wilson: And that's why religious belief annoys you. Because if the universe operates by abstract rules you can learn them; you can protect yourself. If a Supreme Being exists, He can squash you any time He wants.
House: He knows where I am.
- Courtesy of yesterday's seventeen hour House marathon and http://www.housemdquotes.com/ [lol that this site exists, by the way...and that this is exactly the quote I was thinking of and I managed to find it in about three minutes]
Mrs. Lintott: And you, Rudge? How do you define history?
Rudge: Can I speak freely without being hit?
Mrs. Lintott: You have my protection.
Rudge: How do I define history? Well it's just one fucking thing after another.
...
Mrs. Lintott: History is a commentary on the various and continuing incapabilities of men. What is history? History is women following behind with the bucket.
- The History Boys [I really need to see this movie from start to finish...I keep missing the beginning.]
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Heap
You say these words to me
like they're magic incantations
and I melt because I'm solid,
like ice.
I'm cold.
It's just the weather.
It's a reaction to the season.
It's the rainy misconception
and the waste of another reason.
It's all misunderstanding.
It's all in bad hand writing.
It's all a lie about love and loving.
Warm hands or eyes -
it makes no difference -
it all amounts to shit:
the substance which you fed me.
Broken promises spell trouble
so I guess I'm in a heap,
but I wish you'd still come find me;
even your lies sound pretty sweet.
************************************************
It's about dishonesty. Or loving.
Or maybe there's not much of a difference.
"I'm kickin' like a kid 'cause I can't get rid of it." Kevin Devine Trouble
like they're magic incantations
and I melt because I'm solid,
like ice.
I'm cold.
It's just the weather.
It's a reaction to the season.
It's the rainy misconception
and the waste of another reason.
It's all misunderstanding.
It's all in bad hand writing.
It's all a lie about love and loving.
Warm hands or eyes -
it makes no difference -
it all amounts to shit:
the substance which you fed me.
Broken promises spell trouble
so I guess I'm in a heap,
but I wish you'd still come find me;
even your lies sound pretty sweet.
************************************************
It's about dishonesty. Or loving.
Or maybe there's not much of a difference.
"I'm kickin' like a kid 'cause I can't get rid of it." Kevin Devine Trouble
Monday, January 12, 2009
Something Like Happiness
Coffee stains
and razor blades
and mismatched socks
and dirty mops,
a string of benign
and beautiful shots
that snap imagination
out of hibernation.
The smells are familiar,
like I once lived here,
but ran screaming
with fear.
A feckless foe
faces me,
stares me down,
asks too much of me.
To break
down
apart
up
off:
the thought
leaves me
numb.
And I'm already cold
from a tale so old:
a fairytale nightmare
in which I disappear.
A damsel in distress -
perhaps you know the rest -
with her dazzling prince
and a moment's glimpse
of something like happiness:
it feels so warm,
but only when you are,
like blankets from the dryer
or maybe hell's fire.
Still, your steps sound distant
and your voice is so faint
and I dream that you're nearer,
my reflection in a mirror,
so I could see you clearer.
But dreams vanish with the sun;
they mock me just for fun.
I'm writing you this story
of lonesome glory,
but my pen's in your hands:
you decide how it ends.
****************************************
"...I felt just about the closest to this stuff that is called happiness as I have ever struck." Woody Guthrie Bound For Glory
and razor blades
and mismatched socks
and dirty mops,
a string of benign
and beautiful shots
that snap imagination
out of hibernation.
The smells are familiar,
like I once lived here,
but ran screaming
with fear.
A feckless foe
faces me,
stares me down,
asks too much of me.
To break
down
apart
up
off:
the thought
leaves me
numb.
And I'm already cold
from a tale so old:
a fairytale nightmare
in which I disappear.
A damsel in distress -
perhaps you know the rest -
with her dazzling prince
and a moment's glimpse
of something like happiness:
it feels so warm,
but only when you are,
like blankets from the dryer
or maybe hell's fire.
Still, your steps sound distant
and your voice is so faint
and I dream that you're nearer,
my reflection in a mirror,
so I could see you clearer.
But dreams vanish with the sun;
they mock me just for fun.
I'm writing you this story
of lonesome glory,
but my pen's in your hands:
you decide how it ends.
****************************************
"...I felt just about the closest to this stuff that is called happiness as I have ever struck." Woody Guthrie Bound For Glory
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Snap
She speaks in shallow promises
and broken hearts:
she repeats what's whispered
in her ears.
She walks along
on her tightrope
as if there's no such thing
as absurd.
She brushes your cheek,
but you never feel it
like her heat
is your repellent.
When the sun shines,
she cries.
It should be dark
all the time.
The light
hurts her eyes,
but she denies
it's you that makes them sting.
So, she shuffles her feet
and bites her tongue.
She imagines a day
when you're not gone.
And when it rains,
she smiles and sings.
She wishes she had wings:
to you, herself she'd bring.
Like branches,
she sways
from side
to side
and you,
her wind,
made her snap,
so unkind.
It is she
who is your sport
for ignoring,
though she was born
inside your smile
this morning.
********************************************
"She brings her friends so we wont have to be alone. I fear I might lose my composure without warning. I am a child of fire. I am a lion. I have desires and I was born inside the sun this morning." Counting Crows Hanging Tree
and broken hearts:
she repeats what's whispered
in her ears.
She walks along
on her tightrope
as if there's no such thing
as absurd.
She brushes your cheek,
but you never feel it
like her heat
is your repellent.
When the sun shines,
she cries.
It should be dark
all the time.
The light
hurts her eyes,
but she denies
it's you that makes them sting.
So, she shuffles her feet
and bites her tongue.
She imagines a day
when you're not gone.
And when it rains,
she smiles and sings.
She wishes she had wings:
to you, herself she'd bring.
Like branches,
she sways
from side
to side
and you,
her wind,
made her snap,
so unkind.
It is she
who is your sport
for ignoring,
though she was born
inside your smile
this morning.
********************************************
"She brings her friends so we wont have to be alone. I fear I might lose my composure without warning. I am a child of fire. I am a lion. I have desires and I was born inside the sun this morning." Counting Crows Hanging Tree
Saturday, January 03, 2009
Half Alive
Laying on my back,
half asleep
or maybe half dead,
thinking half dead
is all right:
it's half alive.
As sure as we're all alive,
we're all gonna die,
we're all gonna die
and that's just fine.
The fan is off
so it's too quiet to sleep
and you're too far away
so it's too cold to dream,
but closed eyelids
draw you nearer.
Fingertips
and eyelashes
and feelings
and looks
and I've already read this book,
but you managed to get me hooked.
Again,
a wrong turn
down a dangerous road,
but it's so tempestuous
and it tingles
and tastes
suspiciously
like you.
*************************************************
It's about doing shit you know you're better off not doing...but - then again - what the hell? Ya only live once.
"Would you say that the one of your dreams got in you and ripped out the seams? That's what I'd say. That's what I'd say." Heatmiser Half Right
"As the priest got up to speak, the assembly craved relief, but he himself had given up. So, instead, he offered them this bitter cup: 'You're gonna die. We're all gonna die, could be twenty years, could be tonight. And lately I have been wondering why we go to so much trouble to postpone the unavoidable and prolong the pain of being alive.'" Pedro The Lion Priests And Paramedics
"We're all gonna die. That's just life in time. The hallelujah, the by-and-by, we'll all fly away so high." All Get Out Wasting All My Breath
half asleep
or maybe half dead,
thinking half dead
is all right:
it's half alive.
As sure as we're all alive,
we're all gonna die,
we're all gonna die
and that's just fine.
The fan is off
so it's too quiet to sleep
and you're too far away
so it's too cold to dream,
but closed eyelids
draw you nearer.
Fingertips
and eyelashes
and feelings
and looks
and I've already read this book,
but you managed to get me hooked.
Again,
a wrong turn
down a dangerous road,
but it's so tempestuous
and it tingles
and tastes
suspiciously
like you.
*************************************************
It's about doing shit you know you're better off not doing...but - then again - what the hell? Ya only live once.
"Would you say that the one of your dreams got in you and ripped out the seams? That's what I'd say. That's what I'd say." Heatmiser Half Right
"As the priest got up to speak, the assembly craved relief, but he himself had given up. So, instead, he offered them this bitter cup: 'You're gonna die. We're all gonna die, could be twenty years, could be tonight. And lately I have been wondering why we go to so much trouble to postpone the unavoidable and prolong the pain of being alive.'" Pedro The Lion Priests And Paramedics
"We're all gonna die. That's just life in time. The hallelujah, the by-and-by, we'll all fly away so high." All Get Out Wasting All My Breath
Sunday, December 28, 2008
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
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
Sunday, November 30, 2008
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
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
Friday, November 28, 2008
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
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
Monday, November 24, 2008
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
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
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
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
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
Friday, November 14, 2008
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)
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)
Saturday, November 01, 2008
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
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
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
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?
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?
Monday, September 15, 2008
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
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
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
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
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
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
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
Thursday, August 14, 2008
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
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
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
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
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
Thursday, July 24, 2008
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
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
Monday, July 14, 2008
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
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
Wednesday, July 09, 2008
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
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
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