The sky is alight + forms distress signals i am unfamiliar w/. The stars are not wholly still, but alive w/ vibration as though the earth’s mounting energy obscures the clear deep space. Branches camouflage as com/radicals dart away into the greenery, trailing fire w/ the ironic confidence of Hansel + Gretel.
i am drawn to this warming flame, it leads me. When the way out is baffling, the way in is too clear. W/out border crossing, w/out fence caging. No walls to graffiti messages for others to misinterpret. Free to play w/ dancing flame, + the appropriate longing to inter/fear w/ emoting. Eyes of fire are blind. All’s fair. There is no need to qualify the hankering for this inner war of passion, nor the outer suffering. In this confusion nothing is forgotten, only left behind.
i’m hit. Assumption fills the being i am. Dropping my chin i see an arrow protruding from my breast. Blood leaks down, rushing toward the earth in an anxious soaking to become one w/ the subtle energy that we all belong to in the end.
Falling to my knees i look up, + sway to an ancient internal rhythm. Vultures form as ink spots above me, then twist + depart as if they were a mere thought flushed from the sky. Everywhere an echo of the outskirts of civilization.
i now long to take a partner by the hand, to follow the parade i’m slipstreaming into. But my mind turns + sees only one. Anteros is wiping tears as he laughs at my shocked numbness. Not asking, nor waiting, as reply he turns + haphazardly lets another arrow fly. It is shot into the sky power/full straight. As its zenith levels, overcome by the earth’s pull of gravity, the weighty point leads a graceful arc down from heaven. Somewhere another is hit in the back. This victim wonders why, even as the answer is known.
The moon fades to blackness + i am alone w/out senses. i hear no longer the breeze through the lacy sifting green. i see no longer the details of this plane. Three mutinous moons shine simply. Three romantic grizzled crones each mocking me w/ a wagging finger. i feel no longer the heat of a burning heart. Only a low resonating hum that becomes deeper, stronger + overwhelms me. A nonexistent kingdom is so very close. The stark whole/iness is the roof of my mouth as it expands, extending beyond.
Not seeing the possibilities can sometimes be a half hallelujah.
Tenth Daughter of Memory / deathbed revenge
But will I have the strength to joke at that moment?
Only one regret. I hate to leave while there's so much going on. It's like quitting in the middle of a serial. I doubt there was so much curiosity about the world after death in the past, since in those days the world didn't change quite so rapidly or so much. Frankly, despite my horror of the press, I'd love to rise from the grave every ten years or so and go buy a few newspapers. Ghostly pale, sliding silently along the walls, my papers under my arm, I'd return to the cemetery and read about all the disasters in the world before falling back to sleep, safe and secure in my tomb.
-L. Bruñel / My Last sigh
Now small fowls flew screaming over the yet yawning gulf; a sullen white surf beat against its steep sides; then all collapsed, and the great shroud of the sea rolled on as it rolled five thousand years ago. -Melville / Moby Dick
Then they went down together, and the King awoke, and the Queen, and the whole court, and looked at each other in great astonishment. And the horses in the court-yard stood up and shook themselves; the hounds jumped up and wagged their tails; the pigeons upon the roof pulled out their heads from under their wings, looked round, and flew into the open country; the flies on the wall crept again; the fire in the kitchen burned up and flickered and cooked the meat; the joint began to turn and frizzle again, and the cook gave the boy such a box on the ear that he screamed, and the maid plucked the fowl ready for the spit. And then the marriage of the King's son with Briar-rose was celebrated with all splendor, and they lived contented to the end of their days. -Bros.Grimm / Briar rose
DRAGON + CIRCLES
He held the winged doll in his arms cradling it as he swayed back and forth imagining the life it represented.
Squinting into the sun he imagined the disadvantage of sword fighting against the light with the opponent silhouetted. He moved toward the surf and knelt down dragging the figure onto the sand. The silk brocade fabric wicked up the salt water splaying it in a meander following the jacquard pattern. The darkening of the form interested him and he studied it with intent, not hearing the small girl child come up and plop beside him with familiarity, the obvious question on her face.
He silently cursed his inability to defend and responded begrudgingly,
“Playing at magic.”
Her look remained unimpressed so he continued,
“This is a do-it-to-it doll. Somewhere it’s happening to another real live dragon. And I’M doing it.” He made a jab to his chest with a thumb extended from a fist.
He realized having said so the idea relied on a leap of faith. Glancing at her sideways and seeing her charmed, he eased and had a try at being humble.
“And that makes me St. George. The magic dragon slayer. "
A soft mist encircled the early morning moon as it rose from between the sugar trees. The reflective spotlight quickly embraced all that lay in its wake as if tardy and making up for the mistake.
“Merry we meet.”
She stepped into the circle, and lit a white candle on the stone altar.
It was then she felt a dragging motion as if water deadened her limbs and crawled to her neck, holding her firm as if the strangling would be slow over a period of days. At once she became aware of the necklace she had worn since her fifteen birthday. It had become a tight reminder of old songs and past chapters; all hard won to be neatly forgotten.
This convincing had the young girl emptying her pockets of the tools and findings of the day. With the look of someone picking out retribution, and with great ceremony he moved his hand over the collection as if sensing energy. With disenchanted enthusiasm his hand hovered over the spilling of broken Coquina, an entire twirl of tangerine peel, a bit of string, a tangle of monofilament, a barbed fishhook and broken stick. He scooped up the fish line and held it out to her.
“Let out the knots and I’ll show you.”
She struggled with that task as he easily fashioned two spears from the twig and shell with the string. He pierced his finger in testing the weapon's worth and raised an eyebrow in expectation of her compliment. She gave up the de-knotting, noting it a ruse to keep her occupied. She traced his glance to his bloody finger then back to his eyes.
She immediately regretted it. Having gained tribal trust, his smirk now seemed to show dissapointment in grossing her. He doubted this, priding himself on not discriminating upon a person’s gender, as that was to act in ignorance of a deeper truth. He ignored the retort and pushed ahead.
“This is how you kill a frog without really killing it.”
She broke the necklace and tossed it toward the candle, hitting just so, making it sputter then reignite bolder. This became a sign, a chance to reunite the universe. She wanted to burn clean and begin again from the supernatural that is naturally potential.
Walking the perimeter of the circle, she made a safe countenance against the spears of invading authoritarian hierarchy.
The young girl modestly withdrew her body, as she craned her neck toward the experiment for a better look.
Not wanting her help, he positioned the dragon between his feet and held fast as he readied the implements of despair. Ignoring rules of the blood-circle, he challenged the air between himself and the fire breathing foe of medieval legend. A spear in each hand, and with a burst of adrenalin he forced the makeshift arrows into the head of the doll meeting up through the center scale.
She gazed up toward the moon and saw an apparition winging toward her. An ecstatic ride held her in a trance and whispered vaguely in a language she had yet to understand. Two eagles crashed inside her head, exploding in a light unbearably brilliant and the electrical resonance left sparks scattering throughout her being. She tore at her hair until the divine ecstasy eased. Centering herself as the ancient omphalos, she moved out and beyond not looking back.
With a bend and a twist he released the victim from the spears.
The dragon lay disfigured, an interpretation of death.
She took to wearing a hooded sweatshirt backward to avoid commotion.
That went as well as could be expected.
He enjoyed using his eyes as a camera. He remembered the first time discovering he could art direct a film in his mind. He was a young boy sitting w/ friends in a one car garage in Santa Cruz. Six tidy folding chairs were arranged toward the Victorian theater. The modest host made final preparations to work the colorful paper stage, characters + props. He patiently waited for the lights to dim. Idly looking over to the shelves, he zeroed in on a heavy volume, cocked his head to silently read the title. A tome cataloguing Picasso’s work. His gaze widened to see another Pablo book just on either side. + another + another... Slowly, indulgently his mental camera pulled back to reveal that the entire wall beheld a multitude of books on the artist Pablo Picasso.
(kb'd do just about anything just to hear me laugh.)