Alaska. Cinnamon. Snowflake.


The Eye Cracked

Twilight on the endless steppes, as the sun hazed out into starlight, the tall, golden wheat whipping in a cool, early spring wind. The endless horizon offered no where to hide from the eyes of Father The Sun or Mother The Moon. Up in the sky they would always see me.

A lifetime ago I had been a young man here, a soldier at war. It was all for the homeland. All for all the helpless depending on us back home. To stop the mad, demonic man coming from the east, like the sun.

The eye cracked, and out came fire and screams and the hateful stench of flesh left to rot. We’re all ugly when we’re dead.

Like a steel blade, I was forged and hardened in flames, and I knew what I had to do, and I knew for whom I fought.

I fought for her. Her angelic light kept me warm as the winter stole away so many, more than flames and fire. Cold is patient, like Mother The Moon, who wants her children back home again.

Her angelic light was real and decadent, and I knew we would both make it to summer, when the demonic men would be cast out again, the possessing spirits pacing in the underworld for another time.

The war ended. She was not there. The light was a mischievous spirit who used me for it’s own ends. Father The Sun had claimed her while she bathed. She was an angel with him. Never again for me.

And she danced up in the sky with Father, having forgotten the realm of weight and flesh. She did not even remember our kiss. Before the war, we had sat by the river, slim and silver. We had been enchanted, somehow.

Enchantment leaves scars.

She had kissed me. The last hurrah for innocence. It was warmth without lust. Passion without hunger. Peace in a lover’s touch.

Enchantment breeds hunger for more. More magic. More release from weight. More wonders to soothe a broken heart.

I became as dissolute as any drunkard. I chased that moment forever, with any girl who’d welcome me, into her arms or bed.

Nothing else mattered.

All the while she danced, having for free what I got in dregs and ruined rags. She was with Father, and she was adored and made weightless.

Old, with nothing to show for it, but the words made as hymns to lover, pale moonlight reflected from her in the sun. Words made to capture a moment, a high. So much useless amber.

Old and tired, and out here on the steppes, where Father and Mother can both see me as they come halfway after the divorce. They see me. They see what I have done.

Old, out here on the steppes as that bitter wind flows and cries and gets deeper into you skin and bones than any dream, lover or whore, to the very place all light is kept.

Old, and it all left a crystal tower that is wonderous, but whose foundation in sand is washed away in a single hour. What is an hour to Father? What is an hour to Mother?

And Mother comes down for me. The trick she played for her own magic. Making me love the girl Father claimed. Taking me away to be in the cold.

I’ll remember her in the sun. She will be blind to me in the moon. The weight will drag me to the bottom of the sea.

Stars Above

Stars above, outside a fogged window, the moon too.
Up in heaven, leaving me behind, the angels flew.
Can’t sleep, and I cannot leave this place, what I fear.
There’s always someplace else when you disappear.
Can a demon wear a face like a man? Yes, yes he can!
No sulfur smell. No horns or black eyes. just a man.
I can’t remember the face that brought me to worldly life.
I can’t remember her voice. I remember the Demon’s knife!
 He snores and grunts, like a dragon in his bed, and HER,
HER, who tricked me with a sweet. To him, to Satan, she defers.
She tries to be tender, but she won’t set me free from him.
She is caring, but the light in her soul she has let him dim.
 Stars above, stars someone else sees, far away, who loved me.
 I can sometimes see their faces, on the edge of moonlit sea.
I can sometimes touch the stars, and find my way home again.
But I am trapped and used by him, trapped by his selfish sin.

 

The Summer After

The girl is lost, in the tawny wheat of the steppes,
in the cold waters of the river washing past,
in the ruins of the city and corpses their.

The girl is lost, and I am lost, the world burned.
We hold close in the empty field in the summer after,
holding on like drowning sailors to driftwood.

The games we played are echoes in dreams
and voices and laughter half-remembered,
a phantasm of something lost.

The first kiss as we swam in the cold river.
Chasing each other through the tall wheat.
Looking up and the endless stars.

The girl is lost, and I am lost, our world burned.
The cannons and gunfire is silent for now.
The city built again.

It is the summer after, and we hold close,
her head laying upon my shoulder as she sleeps,
and I look up at stars that have never seemed so distant.

Brighter Than Angels

The summer was golden and honeyed and brighter than angels.
We walked hand in hand in ancient woods and wide open meadows.
We played and crystal clear waters that took our breath away
as we dove under. The sun shimmered and crowned the mermaids.
We made love in our little cabin as the day ended, falling asleep embracing.

And summer is a ribbon that cuts your heart with a sweet and stinging venom
as we wait out the dim days and moonless nights, wiping away the tears of the stars
as we remember the sweetness we had before and that me must wait to return.
We laugh and dream and talk about the first time the sun will touch our child
when it comes to us in the first of spring, a year after we exchanged rings.

Holding on to the light as the darkness seems eternal and unpassing.
I must remember the stars crown my wife’s head as we keep out the red dragon
that comes in the cold and in the dark and the siren song of despair.
She is warm as we share our simple meal, and find strength in memory and hope.
The sun will come again, having escaped the serpent that tried to swallow it.

The sun will come again.

Quiet Moment On The Front Lines of an Eternal War

I was tired, from something more than battle and fatigue and hunger. I was tired not just to my bones, but to my very soul. My heart felt like it was pumping sludge instead of blood.

Me and her, Lt. Parris, were sitting above our dug out bunker that was basically home, known, not at all affectionately, as The Tomb. We had tinned fish and bottled water, so we were in high cotton!

Lt. Parris, I dared never call her Taelor, was happily chowing on down on her tinned fish, as if she were on her lunch hour in the park, not a care in the world. Not that she was careless, and not that she wasn’t as wrung out and exhausted as I was, it was just the meat grinder of a war never seemed to dampen her brightness, she shone even in this night.

It was the last dregs of dusk, the last bits of golden and red light been washed out of the sky, and the teacup of the sky was almost completely turned over to close out the light. So many holes in the tea cup. So many stars.

Their was a cool wind coming off the desert. Always so cold at night. Very cold. But I felt something in that wind, almost, almost…….peaceful.

Lt. Parris finished her tinned fish, and washed down the salty aftertaste with the last few swigs from her bottled water. She looked out onto the bare horizon, which ghostly and uncertain under starlight and with no bright moon. There not fear in her eyes. Only peace. And resolve.

“Something to eat besides MRE’s are a rare treat Jones, you should have savored it more.” She says, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

“What are tinned fish when we’re all being devoured, and The Red Dragon is coming take us. We’re all burning. We’ll be ashes on this cold goddamn wind.”

Lt. Parris, sighed, still looking out on the horizon, but she saw something…..else out there. Something……beyond the night and the demons and all the bloodshed.

“Jones…..we’re facing a lot right now. Don’t think I don’t notice the state you’re in. Don’t think I don’t know the Principalaties are amassing, and we’re hemorrhaging soldiers, and that it’s seems like everything we’re fighting for is hopeless and lost.”

“How many years have we been at This Lt. Parris? How much has been lost and how many have we sent how in caskets? How many rivers of blood has flowed on these dusty hills? And for what? The Red Dragon is still pushing hard against us! The demons are everywhere! There’s no bloody end to them! Home, is almost lost!”

I was howling at this point, as if to offer a scream up the sky and heaven itself! Once again, I was getting to worked up. To emotional. To bloody moody and unstable. I sighed, and brought myself back to earth, I think.

Lt. Parris sighed, but didn’t react otherwise. She didn’t threaten to have me reported to the platoon priest for blasphemy, or threaten to have me court martialed for defeatism. All the same, this was stuff she’d heard before, often, and was exasperated with hearing. Almost as exasperated as I was for not being able to shut up about it. But this war I’d been fighting for so long, and nothing seemed to every change in a good way. All that changed was what poor sucker caught it that day and had to be sent home in a box, perhaps a box that contained many pieces.

“Jones, Home isn’t lost. We have held them. At cost, at pain and loss. But we have held. It will never end, not until The Revelation and The End of Time. We’re going to fight here until we can’t. The others who follow us will do the same. The Red Dragon will always be a threat, because just as we have the divine light in us, we also have the darkness in us. Demons were once us you know. They got seduced. They let themselves be taken.

“There  will always be people who let themselves be taken.” She said.

She reached over and placed arm around my shoulders, and gave me a squeeze. I tensed, surprised by her showing any sort of affection. But I then melted into it, and felt the warmth of her, and I felt as if the light and the peace in her was pouring into me.

She disengaged herself, squeezed my knee, than looked up at the stars.

“Remember what you have won, and what you’ve saved, all that you’ve been, even here.” She says.

She collects her empty tin and bottle and goes back inside The Tomb.

I sit by myself for a long time, in the darkness, beneath the stars, and in the wind.

Armor Of A Mighty Faun

I can make out God’s face in the skeletal constellations I, childlike, adore.

It’s a cold night in May, the moon and Venus are preparing for war.

Tactical shotguns just leave those demons laughing without remorse.

Crosses aren’t pistols, holy water you drank like Coors, so ugly and coarse.

A scared queer girl sets fire to the Legions you put the face of Christ upon.

Tattered hoodie, stained jeans, ragged sneakers, Armor of a Mighty Fawn.

True hearts call angels, the lost and broken repel The Devil, street by street.

That queer girl has a tender hand, heart of light, and knows war is your beat.

The cold morning, 4:45 and the suns coming up, bright as rain, Jesus’ blood shed.

I stand trembling, terrified, of the guns you carry, the demons filling my misfired head.

Jesus’ blood is shed, we can be clean, even as you take our heads for burnt offerings tonight.

We chose purity and love and grace, you cannot take that from us, you are damned in His sight!

High In A Castle, Not My Own

The sun comes up and goes down
no matter what happens in this town.
The stars come out through light pollution
and the moon offers light but no solution
On top of the bank headquarters, world far below,
I wonder if peace is a thing ever possible to know,
as I reach the end of my janitorial shift, watching sunrise,
wondering why, with all that’s happened, my wife never cries.
She’ll be asleep when I get home, maybe fifteen minutes before
she has to go to work, smiling all day, not showing blood on the sales floor.
I’ll sleep alone in our shared bed, the light accusing and unhappy, kept covered.
And I think of some other place, some other sun, unknown, yet to be discovered.
Right now the world is distant in the sunlight and the cool winds,
the reed is pushed around, pushed down, for it courteously never bends.
In the cool earth of the grave, the seeds that make way for another appointment,
Me and my wife will sleep side by side, away from loss, away from promises, disappointment.

Halo of The Killing Chair

I told them, but no one pressed me for details

so now they must eviscerate a lily white dove

and read it’s torn out entrails

to find what the sacred word might have been.

Summertime is a war you cannot win.

The poison in a plain tin cup, the Grail of Christ,

lost in the back of a Romanian cab on New Years Day,

the blood turned bitter in the biggest, most egotistical heist

that turned halo’s into the collar of the killing chair.

To speak her name, I don’t dare.

Nightmares give comfort by telling my heart it works and is broken.

The wings that drip blood never mind the angelic frost on a little girl’s window,

on a crooked street, on the most perfect winter morn, in a slum in Hoboken.

Cigarettes are mother’s demarking of days into nights into weeks

and even The Devil trembles with fear, when her slurred mouth speaks.