WasteLand

July 11, 2012

Our horses are doubt and disaster and we sit bowlegged, bow backed and estranged, grey children of some tainted army. I don’t remember what I’m fighting for. Smoke rages and rises above these shallow, tangled valleys and we salute from the backs of our screaming, sweating mounts. None of us remember anymore…
We are the children of a miracle race, born damaged millennia ago. Born damaged and crawling away from that sacred place, that holy holy place, where God stood strong and untouchably masterful. We began in betrayal, refugees from our proper selves. Broken and fumbling, we grew empires with our atrophied hands, filled our beds with unholy power, and raped the beauty and the joy with which we had been made.
And so our people grew, strange and with an angry strength. We grew into our failure, from boy to damaged man, our eyes and mind in tandem, unable to look back upon the horrors of our history. Instead we see the smoke upon the hills, feel the sorrow move beneath us, saddled and uncomfortably strong. We see but do not remember why our world is burning. We feel but do not remember why we chose to tie ourselves to all the worst within us. And so we ride to satisfy a need to understand.
And in this trackless desert we move through a rain of ash, flesh and hair and bone falling like water, soaking into us. We taste but do not know the flavors of our ancestry. And so we swallow, borrowing what little nourishment this warm and bitter rain allows.
And sometimes there are voices in this massive, empty wasteland and then it is we realize that we are not alone. We try to listen, but our awkward ears can’t know the language of these places with so little practice listening.  We wander on, each time forgetting every sound.
On strange and rare occasion there is a thin and sallow sun that shows its light, breaking for moments through the endless smoke. Our eyes burn with this new fire. We look and cannot look away for fear of losing this new feeling in what could have been our hearts. We move as if to fall from our frightened mounts but our legs have long forgotten how to hold our bodies up. And then that sun is gone.
On rare occasion, when the air is pushed in angry storms, we take uneasy refuge in our passions, laid out like caves at the waist of the hills. The little light is choked as we move farther within, hand over hand reaching out, feeling little more than the uncertainty of our own skin. We breathe deeper here, take thin and desperate delight in the heady squalor of our gasping bouncing from wall to unseen wall, find ourselves afraid of this new place, find ourselves leaving too soon.
We leave delicately, back to our travels from nowhere to nowhere, finding our own tracks from time to time, believing them to be proof that some other must exist. The cities burn and we are all alone within this wasteland that is life.

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Am I Alone?

April 24, 2012

There is too much darkness here. These halls seem neverending and so humid and cold. They stink of rot. The creaking of weary floorboards and the cursing sounds I make are all that keeps me awake and moving. I am hungry and sore and so tired… If I die I pray that I die outside of these walls. But there is no way out. Or no way that I can see. Perhaps I suffer from night-blindness. Or perhaps I fear the light.

But I am no monster to be host to the darkling world and I will not suffer this much longer. Or so I beg beneath my breath. And these halls whisper my words back into my mouth. There is no way out. But I cannot stop, or monster I most surely would become. Am I alone?

The delirium ghost projects waves on my walls. Sleep is a homeless and beggarly voice that cries ‘Mercy!’ only when I breathe out in long sighs. I am awake. I am uncomposed, ill prepared and overexposed, like film badly shot. I am the weight of paper, stacked high in boxes. I am light reflected in the mirror.

I am hasty retreat down the path prior walked with such certainty. A am my own footprints, only now shallower, harder to follow. I am robot psychology, collected to correct my nature of sin. I am broken branches gathered eagerly for summer fires. And I burn. I am a break in the fence.

And you are the beautiful burden. You are the crippled wings of birds who tilt wildly at windows that never break. You are the siren and the flashing lights. You draw attention to my violent wreck, my criminal conscience. You are the din of crowds as they gather to mourn or to celebrate life. You are the hush before rain and the shimmer on the windshields of passing cars. You are every color. You are gorgeous, weighty light. You are my silhouette.

Here is a loveless place, but I tried anyways. Here you took my hand and followed, but I led us only to our deaths. The briar patch, the cliffs, the patient, gnawing ocean. I’ll never know if we jumped or only fell. I wish neither. I wish we flew like nameless lights in the sky. I wish we found a way to fall and never stop. But we have hit that surging shoreline and our bones will never let us walk again. We are complete…

Sorry, But Too Late

March 29, 2012

This swollen sky collapses from the weight of all the layers. We have caked our land in filth and guilt and fear. Fear of mirrors but also fear of seeing anything other than ourselves. Our citadels have broken. All the time spent growing them to match our own growth, only to see them sacrificed. Our holy cities are in ashes and we have forsaken everything to feel awake for just a moment and in that moment we are told of everything we’ve lost.

We breed sin and careless culture, heedless of the way our children mock us. We are lost and cold and hopeless, kept alive only for the hunger of addiction. And we are never filled.

I don’t know the answer to any question. All I know is I keep falling down and breaking into pieces of myself. And I never seem to have the piece I want… No wonder I’m alone.

I’m sorry.

Zombie

February 25, 2012

Do you ever feel sleep like fetters on your eyes?  The daylight hours spent in concentration just to stay alive… And then the shadows come and all the monsters fill your walls. They howl and writhe and whisper promises and lies.

Have you ever tasted sleep like dust and butter on your tongue? Difficult to swallow, contemplating how to fall… And then the darkness rises and your calm becomes a joke. And your head is filled with days when you were young.

Look what you’ve become…

the heart is the greatest discovery. The flesh is the greatest divide. And time is a muscle that flexes it’s power to prove it is greater than each one of us. But could we stand together against time?

The heart is stardust, the lines of light that glimmer on the ocean. The flesh is a waning moon. And hope is the hero of all, the greatest achiever. Hope is the easiest forgotten when the world changes shape.

It is long since dusk, and the lights have gone out. We pretend to sleep. We pace the worn floors of our mistakes, running through our daylight hours again and again in our mind.

“How could I have let her go?”

“Why would she leave?”

And there are always questions and there are always answers to them. But the distance between is often larger than the stride of the heart, and we grow weary in the search. Weary, but sleepless. Restless, we watch the night move. Hear the night noises and know the night was designed for our questioning hearts. We are shadows.

And heart and flesh and time and hope are all that are constant in the motion of our lives.

Phage

February 5, 2012

And when I grow, I will grow slowly. And the sky will be the sweetest shade of blue and the world will whistle with the grace and jubilation of it’s endless cycling spin. And all the shapes will shimmer as my eyes first flutter and jump, drunk with light.

And when I grow, it will be always. Like sunshine. Like water. My great and glorious visage will entangle all the world and I will swallow up the sorrows of this long-forgotten land. I will bring proof of something new and something worthwhile. And all the world will love me as it’s own.

And when I grow, all of you will tremble. With joy or hope or terror. It matters not. I will still grow and never stop until this place is only me. And then I will rearrange the meaning of where I am, as where I am will then be only just me. And I will find a bigger world, somehow, beyond what I have swallowed, and I will trample it til it is only me.

So be it.

And She Is Strength

January 22, 2012

I’m posting this in the memory of a cousin I haven’t seen in a couple years. I hear she’s pregnant now…

DCF 1.0

The lights sway as the city moans above us, caught in it’s own awkward dance. The city is dying, but we are the ones already in the ground. How is that fair? And yet we do not speak of fairness or of dignity. Not on this day of catastrophic waste.

Somewhere above, the sirens endless sounding, one after another, no melody or grace. We fake slow smiles, telling ourselves that we will see that sky again, the way it was before the bombs, before the great mistakes. We hang our heads and let the sounds focus our minds.

Somewhere above us, in the distance between the horror of wholesale destruction and the horror of waiting, there is the scuffling of monstrous machines. Our ‘protectors’, just as afraid as we are. They will not go up. That should have been the first evidence of our coming annihilation, but we will mark our ignorance as exhibit number one.

We are a foolish people. It is our pride, our national identity to be misinformed and small minded and corrupt. It is our structure. The foundation of this country and this city that is falling above us. And here are we, huddled close, surrounded only by the swaying lights and completely aware of which tools we used to make ourselves this mess. If we do not last the night, at least there is no one else to blame.

And now the sirens stop, though the lights still shake and stutter to a rhythm we can only barely hear. The bombs. Through muffled concrete and layers of metal and dirt, the bombs sound almost like a heartbeat. And we don’t miss the irony in that, though we will never laugh at such a thing.

For we are refugees among the rubble of our own homes. We are the few surviving, to carry on our small and sniveling ideals. We will not rebel against this notion. We will not make ourselves heroes. We know our place. We rise to the top to be toppled. That is our station. That is our destiny.

The war machines keep moving, even after the bombs stop. They wouldn’t want us thinking they weren’t working for our protection.  All of our funds, all our goodwill spent to make us weapons. Security. We are not secure.

The dust will settle slowly, over years, and we will come out blinking at that new sun. We will come out to a new world-one that has existed without us. And we will make it ours again, if we make it through the night.

There is a sound like the echo of a scream. And then there is nothing left.

I am lost

December 11, 2011

Hard relapses. I thought that I had better control… Better intentions.

This darkness is so deep to the touch. My hands slide through it and they shiver and shake, repulsed and fascinated. My monsters, so gentle and dusty and wet. My monsters are my shadow. The darkness I can never run from.

Sometimes, at my best, I find a bright place and take rest there for a while. Sometimes I convince myself to stay. But I can’t stay. My shadow always pushes me along and I follow, for fear of being seen with it hanging from my legs.

Sometimes my shadow is before me, as if leading me. Other times it follows. Either way, we’re both going to the same place… Either way, it ends with me alone. Because in the darkness, everything is lost. In the darkness, I am lost.