The Place of Dead Words

Oops

2012-02-04T00:13:00.002-06:00

OK, so the poem everyday thing didn't work out. Surprise! Oh, well. Something is coming soon, though.

Days 4 and 5

2011-12-31T10:54:00.000-06:00

I've already missed one, so I will write two today.

1.
A creaking mess invades my sleep
Lying like stone, rigid, unmoving but awake
A blank wall, unbroken until now
Silence like a deep river, shattered by a groan
Only a little like a tramp, fallen from the train
Less pathetic, but more worthy of pity
But, I do not rise to the occasion.

2.
However it may be
On and on
In and in
Inward and outward
Alone and crowded out
A universe, rattling and teeming
With a single thing

Who knows the self
Knows the rest
Who resides in knowledge
Knows how to rest
Call it what you will
Power or repose
It is a response

Day 3

2011-12-29T22:39:00.000-06:00

Spittle in the road
Only a bit
Glinting in the fading sun
A tiny, wretched prism

Silence falls slowly in the dusk
Missing the point
And night receives
The final toast

Whisked away by new glow
Filling the wisest course
With tiny hazards
But just for a moment

Second Day

2011-12-28T19:00:00.005-06:00

Dusty ray of sunlight
Makes a phantom reality,
Thinly veiled as truth
An open trough of shifting
Light, a seeming lucidity,
Broken streams of awaiting
Laid low by technicality,
A deranged blowing wind

A Poem A Day For 30 Days

2011-12-27T19:53:00.001-06:00

Let's see if I can do it. Here's the first:

I lie in a stone chamber and wait
Unsure of myself
Less sure of you
Only a little convinced of the light beyond

Shadows flash across the figures on the walls
Leaving nothing behind
Giving no explanations
Barely registering with you at all

Drip, drip, drip of water, mineral rich and white
Hammers my brain
Is lost on you
A light caress of lunacy showing through a lie

From the Mouth of the River

2010-05-19T08:42:00.001-05:00

It is from the mouth of the river that the sea takes its sustenance.

You sit at the table, cigarette in hand, drink before you, and you watch the door. In time, and in libation, nothing begins to matter to the exception of all else. There are comings and goings, conversations and arguments about less than nothing. It is the way of things. It's just you and the six billion. There are too many, you might drown in them. Closing in, they menace with yellow teeth and the sweet, tempting breath of the dying. Where does the time go?

Heading for the door, the poignancy of the scene left behind is not lost on you. Men and women, happy, enraged, sad, delirious, all sliding to their fate, slow as hell. You and the six billion. Where does the time go? The fresh air changes your direction. Suddenly, everything is fresh and clean. Now, its you who are menacing, belligerent and deadly. You see faces, repulsed, amused, fearful. Trying to become invisible, you trip on to your destination, such as it is. Rushing water sounds in your head.

Small Things

2010-05-19T08:39:00.000-05:00

What I remember of her are the small things: The way she moved her hands, the sun in her hair, the way the hem of her dress curled up slightly. She would hold her hand over her eyes, shading out the sun, but letting the small breeze blow her bob around her ears.

"What are you doing?" She would ask, but not really expect an answer. It was a greeting, as close as she ever came to acknowledging that she needed someone else's company. We sat together often, usually during a lunch break or some such interval. I would munch the sandwich I brought, she would look around us, and comment on the people. I never saw her eat, which is curious; most relationships center, at least in a small way, around eating.

"I like that guy's hat," she would nod at the elderly gentleman with the fedora and long coat. "You should get a hat like that."

I rarely had a reply to that sort of thing. She couldn't possibly have meant it. I had seen myself in hats, and it was always ridiculous. At the time, I had long, red hair, past my shoulders. Hats just looked out of place.

"That woman is a racist," An unsubtle pronouncement, but when I looked up to see who she was talking about, I wasn't sure I could disagree. The lady did look rather disapprovingly at the interracial couple a few feet away from her. It could have been the overly-affectionate mannerisms they displayed, or the divergent skin colors. It was difficult to tell, and to point that out would be unnecessarily confrontational. I was never into an argument.

So, I let these little comments go, usually without a rejoinder of my own.

These are the things I recall, and little else. She seemed nice enough, and in the couple of months we played at a relationship, she displayed nothing abhorrent or terribly irresistible. So, finally, we simply stopped seeing each other. We didn't even say goodbye in any way. One day, she didn't show up for lunch, and I didn't go round her place that night to make love and examine her collection of novena candles again. I didn't see her again for another six months.

I was at a party. It was a rather large affair, held in a warehouse. Two friends of mine, a couple for a decade or more, were celebrating their anniversary. When they had a party, they tended to invite everyone they had ever known, so these affairs had long ago outgrown their apartment. One of them was an artist, and she liked to turn these parties into an art show as well. The floor was scattered with various heavy-looking lumps of bronze and iron, almost fearful to behold, in a Lovecraftian sort of way. The walls were littered with two-dimensional doppelgangers of them.

I was seated on a bench beneath one of the gigantic canvases, staring distractedly into a mostly-empty glass of gin. "That girl just had sex in the bathroom." She was standing a little to the left of me, gazing off into the crowd. I could see the woman she was talking about. She was the only obvious choice. The rest of the crowd in that part of the room appeared to have stopped doing anything remotely enjoyable years before.

"Her dress is wrinkled in the back, and her hair seems more accidentally disjointed than intentionally scruffy."

She looked down at me. Her hair was longer now, it was in her eyes, and I couldn't see the color of them. I didn't remember it. We smiled at each other for a moment, and she moved back off into the crowd. I never saw her again.

After Work by Gary Snyder

2010-05-19T08:22:00.003-05:00

The shack and a few trees

float in the blowing fog

I pull out your blouse,

warm my cold hands

     on your breasts.

you laugh and shudder

peeling garlic by the

     hot iron stove. bring in the axe, the rake,

the wood

we'll lean on the wall

against each other

stew simmering on the fire

as it grows dark

             drinking wine.

This Is Morning

2009-09-23T08:41:00.001-05:00

Where is the descent into the shadow?
Where the oddness of light?
This is the weirdness of morning,
the bleary-eyed stare into the middle distance.
A cacophony of uninteresting activity occupies the ears,
frustrating the brain’s attempt at lucidity.
Here is empty obedience to the body’s necessities,
and thank the Gods for that.
But then, the coffee is good, like confession and
screaming curses at the sky.
The drilling headache that follows is evidence of life,
and an opening to the news of the day.
So much for the shadow, forgotten; so much for soft light.
Bring the day’s fight! Open the Third Eye of burden!
I am awake, I am ready...

The Eternal City, Parts 18 & 19

2009-09-15T10:17:00.002-05:00

The King of the Dead stood within his ring of stones and gazed malevolently at the southern horizon. He awaited the arrival of his shadowy ally, this ruler of trolls. A towering rage inspired him, and he thought of the many punishments he would like to visit upon the creature. They would be painful, extensive, long, and eventually fatal. But, there was one punishment that fit above all, and he would find great satisfaction in inflicting it.

“I am here,” came the voice of the shadow from near and behind him. It was still full of confidence, of insolence. It suspected nothing, another sign of its inferiority.

The King of the Dead turned and held his arm out before him, his hand tracing a small, quick gesture. Instantly, the shadowy form of the creature claiming to be the Night Spirit was encased in a transparent sphere, preventing it from moving or affecting anything around it.

“You cannot be whom you claim to be,” said the King of the Dead, a triumphant smile playing at his lips. “The Night Spirit would not be captured so easily. Not even within the confines of my own sanctuary would I have been able to do this.”

He stepped nearer the shadow. “No, you are no Fomorian at all. Rather, you are simply an upstart little spirit, playing games too big for itself.”

The shadow remained silent. It simply glared at the King of the Dead. But, something had changed. The gold of its irises, those strange little circles that seemed so out of place in the shadow changed. They were replaced with the red, slit-irised eyes of a troll. Its pupils narrowed, as if it were frightened of its own transformation.

Something happened to the shadow itself, too. It seemed to become grainy, its darkness wavering, flowing from one part of itself to another. It tried to back away, but could only reach the side of the sphere.

The King of the Dead laughed a little. “You are in trouble,” he teased.

“Tell me,” he said, turning suddenly serious. “What would have possessed you to directly take the life of a mortal? Did you not think I would know?” He put his face right up to the edge of the sphere. “I am the King of the Dead! No spirit may kill but at my command. No Fomorian, and certainly no creature less than we! It is only these little mortals who are free to do so.” As he spoke this last, he found a regret in his voice he’d not heard in a long time.

This little creature was going to suffer, oh yes. But, it would still be no consolation for allowing the last one to get away with it. He knew who she was, what she had done, and why. And he had let her go. He had done nothing, though it would have been within his power and his rights to do anything, and he would still do nothing, unless she forced his hand. Even then, he was not sure.

“Come, my little friend,” The King of Death said, reaching out toward the sphere, “let us go see the Witch.”

The little shadow’s eyes grew wide, and the depth of its darkness seemed to waver even more.

19.

“What of the man’s concubine?” Maselin asked. “Where is she?”

Gils replied, “She was found in their tent. He neck was twisted around… -er, several times.”

“Gruesome,” Maselin said, eyebrows raised. “Do you suspect the Ghok slaves?”

“It occurred to me,” Gils answered. “But, I don’t think so. They would have fled, certainly. Also, it is my understanding that the Ghoks are honor-bound to serve their captors. Something about their own culture prevents them from revolting.”

“This I have heard, as well,” Maselin agreed. “A strange death, and we may never know the answer. Steadmeet wanes, and we haven’t the time or people to question everyone who might have done it.”

Steadmeet was full of many sorts of people, not all of them simple traders. Thieves, bandits and other unsavory characters were attracted to Steadmeet also. This was only natural. Also, merchants could be fiercely competitive. Perhaps one of them seized upon this chance to remove some of the competition completely.

The girl, Kira, had asked that the Maiden remain in their care for a little longer. The Ghoks were awaiting her outside. She’d gone to see them, and Maselin decided to follow. He was possessed of a curious mind, and this was getting the better of him. It was very exciting!

Night and Sun, Eternal Distance

2009-06-17T20:06:00.003-05:00

Distant night, violent in vaporous, artificial brightness
Empty of safety, but sleepy all the same
Draping the hills in the eternal distance
That is brought by the absence of sight
Hiding the King of Fire in danger and ignorance
And robing even the sharp-eyed in uneasiness
Brings, still, its own luminosity, unlooked-for and despised

Graceful sun, Lord of Nurture and God of Burning and Dessication
Brings a wailing, eviscerating screech
To the eye used to streetlights
But shouts a welcome, all the same
Hiding in its light the unwary and stupid
Preserving them for another feast
An audience to their fumblings and their guilt
Lighting their way to their own little destinies

Power of Words

2009-04-26T08:32:00.003-05:00

Carey and some of our friends recently read a series of books that are in the process of being made into movies. I've not read them, and intend to continue resisting for the foreseeable future, but I have been struck by the emotional impact the books have had on some of the readers.

One hears on occasion how the power of the written word can be moving. For instance, parts of the Bible are quite beautifully written, and elicit strong emotional responses. Shakespeare, Wordsworth, Keats, Forster, Hemingway all have moments that are very moving.

But, when naming authors who impress with their emotional impact, quite beyond the quality of their work, the above list is not out of the realm of the expected. The series of books my friends have been reading is written by Stephenie Meyer, Twilight, et al. Initially, this surprised me a great deal, as the books are written as thrillers aimed at teens. But, then I began to consider that Shakespeare's works were aimed at the common audience, and pandered directly to what the public wanted.

What the public seems to want, these days, is vampire sex. If that is what it takes to get into the head of a reader and make him/her react with something more than indifference, I'm willing to set judgement aside, and allow time and taste to decide.

2009-03-22T11:10:00.002-05:00

I realize that this is supposed to be a literary blog, but I think this is one of the most remarkable discoveries in a very long time.

Gobekli Tepe

What goes unsaid here is that there are some beautiful friezes and carvings at this site which do not simply spring fresh from the stone-age mind. There was a period of development here that speaks of further antiquity. Ten thousand years is long enough ago, but there is a still more ancient tradition of art and religion that must have preceded this temple.

The Eternal City, Part 17

2009-02-26T19:23:00.001-06:00

Menold, dwarrow of the Southtend, had a reputation for the love of brewed libation. His reputation was such that he had earned the epithet, Foamnose, among his close friends. Since their arrival at Gate Island, it had been his habit to take one hour off every day to venture into town and partake of one or two of the town’s fine beers. It was such a mission, he assured Miri, that brought him to town this day.

His real intention, of course, was to see if he could spot the Maiden, thereby finding the girl who would be with her. It was his intention to invite them to the booth. That way, the predictions of the Elders need not be compromised, and they would achieve their goal that much faster. Then, they could go home.

He made his first stop at a tavern where he recalled having a particularly fine brown beer. It was there he overheard the first of the whisperings.

“It happened right across the street from Maselin’s house,” one of the locals was saying. “Apparently, ten of ‘em tried to kill the Maiden, and her apprentice killed them, instead.”

“Bad move,” his friend said. “Ain’t never heard of nobody killin’ a Maiden.”

Menold set out almost immediately for Maselin’s house. Along the way, he heard more rumors. The number of attackers grew with the telling, until an army had marched quietly into town and the Maiden had taken down all but one of them, and her apprentice did for him.

Taking most of the talk for what it was, he knew there must be a kernel of truth to it. This could be trouble for him and his companions. He silently cursed Miri for convincing them not to pursue the girl.

Some of the rumors involved the town watch, and Menold took that part for true. So, once he reached Maselin’s house and found nothing going on, he headed for the building that housed the watch.

When he arrived, a small crowd was milling about. Mostly locals, but there were some from out of town as well. Most had come to stare at the three ghoks seated on the edge of the North-South Road, outside of the watch building. He was curious, as well, and as it seemed this was where he would find the girl, he decided to join the crowd.

The Eternal City, Part 16

2009-02-26T19:19:00.001-06:00

“I see the taint in you, girl,” a voice said.

Nessa was lying atop the altar in the chapel at Windhold. The high, vaulted ceilings were shadowed in night, the only light emanating from the candles of devotees left after the final service of the day.

She sat up, weak and sickly-feeling.

The voice came from all around her, “You’ve been poisoned, and you will die.”

It was the voice the Goddess had used in her other visions, so Nessa knew she spoke the truth.

“Before this happens, you must bring the girl to me,” the Goddess said. “You cannot fail.”

She awoke lying on a cot in a strange room. Her chest ached, her face and throat and nose burned. She tried to sit up.

“Steady on, darling,” came a kindly voice. In to her view came a short, elderly human woman. She smiled down at Nessa. “You just lie still, now. You’ve had a rough night.”

“Kira?” Nessa croaked. Her throat was raw, and her voice wouldn’t work.

“The girl is fine,” the woman said. “You don’t worry about her.”

Nessa drifted back to sleep, despite her best efforts.

Kira sat in a nearby room, looking out the window at the growing light. The North-South Road below was filling with people, again. She could see their little campsite across the street and a little way south. The people in the house were emerging, still groggy from the evening’s revels. They had no idea what had happened just outside their home.

There was a little knock on the door, and Maselin entered with two humans. They were both short and a little on the chubby side, and each stood on one side of the tall and thin Maselin as they filled the little room. Kira thought they looked slightly comical.

“Forgive us,” Maselin said. “We would like to apologize for the poor hospitality of our little town. I hope you will believe us when we say that this sort of thing almost never happens, here. In fact,” he went on, “in all my time as mayor, this is the first time anyone has done anything like this. And I have been mayor for nearly a hundred bazaars.”

“I understand,” Kira said. “It’s OK. But, how is Nessa?”

“Ah,” the man on Maselin’s left said. “I have examined her, and it seems she has been poisoned by a substance of which I have no knowledge.”

“This is Master Stile,” Maselin introduced. “He sometimes acts as a physician in Gate Island.”

The physician bowed slightly.

“I cannot say what the long-term effects of the poison will be,” he went on, “but, she seems to be past the initial threat.” He paused, then, “You haven’t, ah, seen her yet, have you?”

Kira was confused, and it must have shown on her face.

“Her face has been damaged,” the physician continued. “What the actual damage has been will only be known once the swelling stops. But, there will be some extensive scarring.”

“I wish to see her,” Kira said, suddenly. She suddenly had the idea that these three were here to keep her from just that, and she refused to allow it.

“Well,” the third man said. “I don’t think that is necessarily a good idea, just now.”

“Gils,” Maselin said. “He leads Gate Island’s guards.”

“Perhaps it would be best for you to allow her to rest,” Gils said. “Besides, I would like to ask a few questions.”

“I wish to see her,” Kira said again, and turned to face them more squarely.

Maselin turned to Gils and said, “I don’t suppose it would harm anything, do you?”

Kira nearly burst into tears when she saw her friend. She suppressed her emotions, and promised herself she would cry later.

Nessa’s face was terribly swollen, especially the lower half. She had a hole in the base of her throat where Stile had made a puncture in order to get air into her lungs. Apparently, her throat had swollen shut. Now, the hole had a stitch in it, and she was breathing normally. The poison had eaten away skin, and bandages covered most of her jaw and her nose. Some of the poison had reached her left eye, as well, and it was heavily bandaged.

She was asleep, and Kira didn’t disturb her. She turned to leave the room, brushing past the three men, when a thought struck her.

“What of the man’s slaves?” she asked.

The two humans looked confused, but Maselin answered, “It is interesting you should ask. They are just outside. They seem to be waiting for something, but they will speak to none but you.”

“Why me?” Kira asked.

“I do not know,” said, holding out his hands in his equivalent of a shrug.

Kira still had her sword, and she was in the mood for a fight. She decided to leave Nessa in the hands of these people for just a little while longer.

Outside the room, Gils asked her, “Young lady, why do you suppose this man would attack your friend?”

“I do not know,” Kira lied. It was her first time. She hoped he believed it.

The Eternal City, Part 15

2009-02-26T19:16:00.001-06:00

It took almost all of the rest of the night to find them. Stellus asked dozens of people finally figuring out they were on the island. Then, dozens more to find that they would be found somewhere along the North-South Road. It was just a lucky thing, he thought, that Maidens are easy to spot.

He found them huddled against a post of one of the elevated houses, just underneath it. As luck would have it, there were few other people around, and they all seemed to be asleep. The Maiden sat, keeping watch, however. She knew her duty, he thought. He admired that. He thought it a shame he must ruin her life.

He kept to the open part of the street, approaching in plain view. He kept a smile on his face, as if pleased to see her. He held a powdered substance gripped in his left hand.

“Ah, excuse me,” he said. “Are you a Sword Maiden?” He continued before she could brush him off, “I ask because my daughter has been so hoping she would be chosen-.”

She was on her feet, standing in front of the girl, who continued to sleep quietly.

“I hope I’m not disturbing you,” Stellus went on. “I just have a few questions.”

With that, he threw the powder in her face. Caught off guard by such a tactic, the Maiden inhaled involuntarily, and began to choke. In a few seconds, she was collapsing. He caught her, and dragged her under the house, and approached the spot where the girl was sleeping.

She was gone!

Stellus cursed, loudly.

Kira retreated into the shadows of the underside of the house when she saw Nessa begin to choke. In a moment, she had her sword out and was searching for a way to approach the assassin without him seeing her.

He now had a dagger out, and was standing, indecisive, just beyond the house. The happy sounds of the inhabitants celebrating some occasion could be heard above her head. Keeping to the shadows for as long as possible, she didn’t reveal herself until the final second before her attack.

He parried her first blow, and came back at her. There was something in his demeanor which seemed to indicate he didn’t want to kill her. He didn’t attack, for instance. He seemed content, for the moment, to defend.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Never mind that, girl,” he answered. “What is important is who you are. Apparently, you are important for some reason. It is simply my job to retrieve you.”

“Retrieve?”

“Barring that, I must kill you,” he admitted, with a shrug.

She attacked again, deciding not to wait for him to decide. He parried again, but she didn’t hesitate, this time. She caught him with a second attack, just below the left arm, delving deep into his chest.

He looked surprised for a moment, and suddenly crumpled to the ground.

It was just then that the town watch arrived.

The Eternal City, Part 14

2009-02-26T19:14:00.000-06:00

“I think I just saw her!” Miri said. She had burst in on Gerrold and Menold as they took a break from the booth. “She disappeared into the crowd, but she had a Maiden with her, just like the Elders said!”

Gerrold and Menold looked at each other excitedly.

“Well,” Gerrold said. “Shouldn’t we go after her?”

“She’s supposed to come to us,” Miri said, putting out a hand, as if to stop him from crashing past her into the bazaar. “The Elders were very specific.”

“But, we spotted her first,” Menold said. “Does that mean nothing?”

Gerrold sighed. “Miri has been right all this time. I suppose we should wait.” He shook his finger at her, “But, not forever.”

Stellus assured his three slaves were secured to their posts before entering his tent behind the booth. Inside, instead of the welcoming face of his concubine, he found the hovering black shadow that had plagued him of late. Its unblinking, golden eyes regarded him coldly, making him shift from foot to foot, and look at the ground more often than his pride would have liked.

“You saw her?” the shadow asked.

“Yes,” Stellus answered. “She was with a Maiden, as described. She doesn’t look important. Just another of these northern peasants.”

“Your opinion is noted,” the shadow said, mockingly. “The fact that my children have been unable to destroy her speaks to me, however. She is protected, therefore she is important. She is what we have awaited.”

“And what is that?” Stellus asked.

“Salvation or destruction,” the shadow answered. “Find her, bring her to me. If you cannot bring her, kill her. Now.”

Stellus had no idea how he was going to accomplish this. The girl would be no trouble. He would simply knock her unconscious and drag her away. The Maiden, however, was a problem. He knew of few who could stand against a Maiden in combat. He was not one of them.

As he moved through the night traffic of the bazaar, an idea struck him. He knew a merchant nearby who could solve this problem. He changed course, and headed for the edges of the bazaar. In a few minutes, he was standing outside a booth where a small fire played atop a single torch. She was still open, one of many merchants whose merchandise sold better at night.

“Stellus,” the young woman said as he approached. “To what do I owe the honor?”

“Good evening, Gretta,” Stellus said. “I come with hope that you have some of your more potent wares prepared.”

“Ah, the costly ones,” Gretta purred.

Stellus snorted, “Of course.” He reached into his pouch and pulled out a glittering necklace, covered in stones. “The very costly ones.”

The Eternal City, Part 13

2009-02-26T19:10:00.001-06:00

They could see the smoke from the cookfires of the bazaar from miles away. The forward rider occasionally rode ahead to scout, and when they were close enough, he told them the bazaar was well underway, and filled with people.

They reached the river just at a point where it turned north, and followed it west to the dike surrounding the bazaar. After that they followed it around to the gate on the south side, and were shown by a tall, curious Seraph named Maselin to a booth on the outer edge of the bazaar, right on the flank of the dike. It was a little out-of-the-way, but the steaders resigned themselves to it readily enough, just happy to be at the bazaar.

Nessa extracted the price of their protection from the unwilling grip of Stanold, and she and Kira made their way toward the island. On the way, Nessa did her best to point out the various kinds of people.

In one booth, a human dressed in heavy black garments stood behind several other beings, all wearing nothing but chains. These creatures were lizard-like, of a size with any other person, but slightly stooped. Their faces were elongated into a short snout, and their eyes were like those of a cat. Their short tails were constantly twitching. Each was scaled with a distinctive, bright color (one orange, one blue, one red), mixed with browns and blacks. Each had a low crest atop its head which ran part of the way down its back.

“That is a trader from Undertorch with his slaves,” Nessa said. “Undertorch is the only place in the world that still has slavery.” Her voice was thick with distaste.

“It is quite a risk for him, bringing his ghoks with him.”

“Why is that?” Kira couldn’t quite wrap her mind around the idea of ownership, especially when it came to a fellow person. “And why do they not simply turn on him? They could easily force him to release them.”

“The risk,” Nessa said as they continued on, “is that they might escape. As to why they don’t turn on him… well, that is a long and strange story, from deep in the ancient past. The ghoks who live among the folk of Undertorch have been bred for slavery, only occasionally mixed with captives seized from the deserts south of the city. It is a deeply ingrained idea that their masters are god-like and must be served.”

“I don’t understand,” Kira said.

“Yes,” Nessa replied. “I have a hard time with it, too.”

As they moved through the bazaar, Kira began to feel more and more confined. There were so many people here. More people than she had ever imagined. She suppressed the desire to simply flee, head for the gate and never return to this place.

Seraphs and Dwarrows still dominated here, though there were a few others, as well. Nessa pointed out to Kira a strange booth that appeared to have grown there. It was made of two trees, with the branches providing the shelter above the merchants. Kira’s first urge was to head for it and hide there.

Then, she caught a glimpse of the two inhabitants. They were almost invisible, as they mixed so well with their surroundings. They resembled trees so much that Kira first thought they were saplings. They were exceedingly thin, like a young tree, with two main branches extending from the trunk and ending in a collection of twigs they used as hands. At the top of the trunk, more branches grew leaves. Kira could not see below about waist-height, as a low-hanging branch of the booth was in the way, but they seemed not to move from their respective places, as if they had sunk roots there. She could see no eyes or other sensory organs.

“Druids,” Nessa said. “From the Treelands far to the south of Pass-by. Those two are probably the only Druids in the Freesteads.”

“What do they trade?” Kira asked, fascinated.

“They trade amber, mostly,” Nessa said.

“Can we talk to them?” Kira asked.

“Certainly,” Nessa said. “But, let’s do that tomorrow. I want to get us someplace to sleep, first.”

Their horses were as nervous as Kira by the time they reached the bridge that crossed over to Gate Island. The North-South road was crowded, and that didn’t change once they’d entered the town. It quickly became clear that they would find themselves sleeping under the stars again, this night. Kira was relieved, as she didn’t like houses. She had discovered this while she washed dishes in the kitchen at Bellows Howe. They seemed like crowded, confining caves.

They did find a young Seraph who agreed to care for their horses, and keep people from stealing their goods while they did their business the next day. They simply agreed to leave him with a share of the goods they acquired.

The Eternal City, Part 12

2009-02-26T19:07:00.001-06:00

Miri and Gerrold relaxed in the back of the little tent. Menold manned the front, where their merchandise was sold. It was evening, and traffic had slowed. It never stopped, as the bazaar went on at all hours, but there were lulls.

“So where is this little human?” Gerrold asked. “We are here, and we are trading, but it does not seem to me that this trip was worth it. If she does not show, then what?”

Miri smiled. Gerrold had been grumpy the whole journey, and he showed no signs of cheering up, even when he saw gold flow in. They sold diamonds, small, beautifully cut and near-perfect. They commanded a high price. The gold, of course, they exchanged for other goods which would be of use to them in their tunnels, back home. But, it wasn’t the great haul Gerrold had been hoping for. It seemed, more than ever, a wasted trip.

“The Elders said she would show,” Miri said with confidence, propping her feet up on a small chest. “That is good enough for me.”

“What if they are wrong?” Gerrold persisted.
Miri considered for a moment, then said, “I should not tell you. But, you are annoying, and if it will help to stop your incessant complaining, I will tell you something. But, you must keep it to yourself. Menold may be told, I suppose, but do not spread it to any stranger.”

Gerrold just stared at her. When had he ever spoken to an outsider, other than to complete some transaction?

Miri sighed and went on, “One of the elders told me they had been given this information by the Lady of the Well.”

Gerrold’s jaw dropped. “Wha-,” he said.

In a few moments he recovered enough to ask, “Why weren’t the rest of us told. That would have changed everything. I would have come willingly.”

“I wasn’t even supposed to know,” Miri said. She looked a little sheepish, “I sort of overheard…”

Gerrold snorted, “Miri, you have always been nosy. Too much interested in things that weren’t your business.” He sighed. “I suppose it is good that you ‘overheard’, though. Otherwise, none of us would understand what was going on, and we might not have stayed long enough to accomplish the task.

“So,” Gerrold said, taking renewed interest in his purpose. “We are to see this girl, give her the stone, and tell her it is from our elders, to aid her on her way. Then what?”

“I suppose we pack up and go,” Miri answered.

“Good.”

The Eternal City, Part 11

2009-02-26T19:06:00.000-06:00

Nessa’s estimate was right. The rain hit them about an hour after sundown, and she and Kira made themselves at home under the last wagon. They weren’t offered the space, Nessa simply told the driver they were moving in. This obviously didn’t sit well with him, but the fight with the trolls was still fresh in everyone’s memory, so the begrudging hospitality they had shown previously was quite a bit more polite now.

The wagons were large, anyway, and there was plenty of room. In fact, the driver, the crossbowman and one of the other riders huddled at one end, and Nessa and Kira at the other. There was still enough room between them that, with the noise of the rain, each group could talk amongst themselves without the other hearing.

At first, Kira was fascinated by everyone else’s clamor to get out of the rain. She had always enjoyed the rain on her face, and quite happily welcomed the showers that fell through the trees as refreshing. Soon, though, as the rain went on, and got harder and harder, she began to understand. The storms which swept the plain were little akin to those that came to the forest. And if there had been something like this, the canopy would have mitigated it somewhat.

As the storm went on, however, she began to find the sound of the wind and the falling water soothing. Even the sudden lightning flashes and accompanying thunder didn’t trouble her.

“Kira,” a voice she didn’t recognize spoke gently. “Kira.”

She was standing in the rain, at the top of a little hill. The plain spread out around her, and the camp with the wagons and horses and the other people was a few hundred feet away. Standing next to her was a woman of medium height, clad in a simple dress of indeterminate color. She was plump, friendly-looking, and beaming at Kira. Her eyes were golden, and glowing in the darkness.

Seeing the girl’s confusion, the woman said, “Don’t be alarmed. I’m not going to hurt you.”

She smiled so sweetly, Kira couldn’t imagine this woman hurting anyone. Besides, Kira was the one with the sword strapped to her side, not her.

“Who are you?” Kira asked.

“Well,” the woman seemed to be considering how to answer. “I am sometimes called the Gray Lady, in these lands. On the other side of the mountains over there,” she vaguely gestured to the east, “they just call me rain. But, they are simpler folk, there.” She said this last with an air of confidentiality, as if saying something she shouldn’t, but indicating that it was probably true, nonetheless.

For the first time, Kira noticed little voices raised in giggles all around her. She looked down and saw a myriad little creatures, all like tiny little women, spread out around her. They were everywhere, and they danced and giggled and played. Some were tiny, like ants, and she could barely tell they were there, others were closer to the size of mice, but none were bigger than that.

“Oh, don’t mind them,” the Gray Lady said. “Those are just my Little Ladies. They are my helpers. They don’t last long, but they have fun while they do.” She smiled.

“Ok, now,” she went on. “I need you to listen, because I won’t be here much longer. OK?”

“OK,” Kira said, still bewildered.

“First, I want to tell you, my Little Ladies say that your friend, the big green one, ah… Hero, is alright, and he will heal up just fine.”

The Gray Lady smiled at the pleased look on Kira’s face. Then her demeanor changed. She became very serious and stepped closer to Kira.

“Now,” she began. “This second thing I must tell you is very important. You must listen carefully, because your life and the life of the one you travel with could depend on it. It is already well-known to all of us that you must travel to see the Sword Goddess. It is the purpose of the Maidens to protect you, and that cannot be done properly until you see the Sword Goddess, and, more importantly, she sees you.

“However, it does not end there,” the rain around them seemed to lessen suddenly, and there were fewer of the Little Ladies about. “I’ll have to hurry,” the Gray Lady said looking about her. “I can’t stay much longer.

“You must also travel to the Floating Ruins. You can ask the Maiden about them. But, you must go there and see the Keeper of the Record. If you do not,” she said, quickly, overriding Kira’s attempt to interrupt, “there may very well be a war. I cannot expect you to understand what that means. There hasn’t been a war in… oh, such a very long time. But, this war would almost certainly destroy the life on this world. That is, in fact, the goal of some who wish this war to come.”

At that, the Gray Lady began to fade with the passing storm. “None can force you to do this. You remain a free person. The decision must be yours. Just know what comes if you choose not to act.”

With that, she faded away completely, along with the last of the Little Ladies. Kira found herself alone on the plain.

She awoke underneath the wagon, soaked to the bone, as the sun rose over the plain. The sky was clear, and the air was chilly. Nessa, who was completely dry along with everyone else under the wagon, regarded her curiously.

The Eternal City, Part 10

2009-02-26T19:04:00.000-06:00

As they rode the next day, keeping to the top of a low rise to the right of the caravan, Nessa asked Kira, “Have you always had trouble with trolls?”

“No,” Kira answered. “I’d never seen one before the fight in the forest.”

“It worries me they didn’t seem to care much for the horses,” Nessa said. “Usually, trolls want to carry off the biggest target. Probably because they would provide the most food.” She paused for a moment, then went on, “It’s strange that they both went for you, as if I were of no consequence. Trolls are stupid, of course. But, they wouldn’t ignore a threat like me. They know what a sword is, generally.

“There is something more going on here,” Nessa continued. “My Goddess might not be the only one of her kind looking for you.”

Kira didn’t like the sound of that.

“Who else might be looking for me?” she asked.

“Legend says the Night Spirit rules trolls,” Nessa replied. “Trolls are, mostly, creatures of the night. Odd, though, that the creatures sent against you are Black Trolls, as they are the only trolls who move about in the daylight.”

They didn’t speak for some time after. Kira spent her time watching the land around, searching for signs of another attack. She examined patches of ground that didn’t quite match those around them; she watched shadows, twitched at every change in the breeze. Monster felt her nervousness, and became restless, as well.

Together, they began to get on Nessa’s nerves, and she rode ahead of them so she could think. The land around them was beginning a long, almost imperceptible slope toward the little valley carved by the Northflow River. Otherwise the land was little changed, still various shades of brown draped over a slightly rolling plain. The wind was out of the south in this season, so it was warm, and mostly gentle.

That breeze was picking up, however, and far off on the horizon, on the other side of the caravan, Nessa could see darkness gathering. A storm was coming up from the distant sea, and it looked to be a big one. She could see the occasional flash of lightning in the gray mass, and the smell of rain was in her nose. She guessed that the rain would reach them that night.

The Eternal City, Part 9

2009-02-12T20:38:00.001-06:00

That night, sensing the farmsteaders’ unease at having strangers at their fires, Kira and Nessa made their own fire a short distance from the wagons. There they ate their share of the stew the steaders had cooked. Nessa also continued Kira’s instruction in combat, going over moves learned the day before, and teaching her more. Nessa was surprised at how quickly the girl learned.

They passed a peaceful night under the stars, each traveler taking his or her turn at watch, and were underway again before sunup. This day, Kira rode her own horse, but stayed close to Nessa. She named the horse Monster, because that is what he looked like to her when he occasionally bared his teeth. By the end of the day, they were friends, and neither was nervous around the other. According to Nessa, this was important. You needed to be able to trust your mount.

Sunset brought a halt to the journey, once again. The two of them were taking their position a little way away from the others, and Kira was working on lighting the fire. Suddenly, a huge form burst from the ground nearby, scattering their horses.

It was a troll, huge and black. It went straight for Kira, ignoring the other form already crouching to retaliate. Kira stumbled back, groping for her weapon. By the time her weapon was out, Nessa had made a deep slash in the monster’s side, drawing its attention away.

Kira’s mind went blank at that moment. She saw the creature turn toward Nessa, and she lifted her blade, burying it to the hilt in the monster’s ribcage. Its arm swung back, weakly batting Kira aside, then it fell to the ground unmoving.

It was then that Kira realized the battle wasn’t over. Nessa was trading swipes with another of the beasts. Kira worked to pull her sword from the troll, but it was stuck. All she could do was watch Nessa.

The Sword Maiden dodged, slashed and pirouetted about the troll, frustrating it at every turn. She seemed to be waiting for something. Perhaps she was letting it wear itself out, or maybe she was struggling to get in through its superior reach. Whatever the case, Nessa finally chose her moment, going in underneath an overreaching slash, and gutting the monster. She spun around and with her next swipe took off the monster’s head.

Stunned, Kira could only stare at the Sword Maiden. She had never seen such a thing as what had just happened. And she desperately wanted to learn how to do it herself.

During the course of the combat, the steaders had stood aloof, merely watching it unfold. It was over quickly, but not so quickly the crossbowmen could not have done some good, and Nessa pulled Stanold aside and let him know this in very certain terms. Stanold went away from the exchange a much paler red than usual.

Kira’s lesson that night was how not to get her sword stuck in her adversary.

The Eternal City, Part 8

2009-02-12T20:35:00.001-06:00

“The tall ones are called Seraphs,” Nessa explained as they neared the farmstead. The ones like you and me are Humans, and the short ones are Dwarrows. These are the three most common peoples you will find around here.”

As she spoke she pointed out different forms working in the fields surrounding them. They followed the same path the workers took to reach the fields, and they were headed for the walled compound where their homes were located.

“There are many other kinds of people in the world, and you will see a great number of them when we reach Pass-by, and probably before,” Nessa continued. “In fact, it should be close to time for the Steadmeet, at Gate Island. They come from all over for that.”

As Nessa spoke, Kira looked all around her. She had only ventured as far as the edges of farmsteads. She was further from the forest than she had ever been. Looking back over her shoulder, she could see the trees getting smaller. She was leading Nessa’s horse, and could barely see over its backside, leaving only the tops of the trees in her view.

She stopped and stepped away from the horse. She regarded her home from a distance for the first time. Leaving the forest had never entered her mind before yesterday. In fact, she had rarely given any thought to the future, simply living day to day in the easy company of Hero. She had never felt she needed anything else.

“Kira?”

She turned to find Nessa regarding her curiously. “Thinking of going back?”

“Saying goodbye,” Kira replied.

“It is not so easy,” Nessa said. “Leaving your home for the first time can be… difficult. When I was chosen for the Sword Goddess, I didn’t want to go. But, I soon found another home at the Fortress.”

“There is no other home for me,” Kira said, more to herself than to Nessa.

The gate of the compound was open, and they were greeted by a Seraph who was the farm’s blacksmith. His smoke-stained face had a wicked scar running from his forehead to his upper lip, across his right eye socket. He wore a patch over that eye. His name was Belin.

Belin had the authority to bargain with travelers and traders in the name of the stead, which he called Bellows Howe. He very proudly showed off the huge bellows that breathed life into the fire at the center of the vast array of anvils and metalworking equipment. All around the blacksmith’s works, his apprentices labored. Clearly, Belin’s enterprise was the center of the stead, and his personality was the center of life here.

As the sun was beginning to dive below the horizon, Nessa agreed to take a watch on the wall that night in exchange for shoes for her horse, and Kira would wash dishes for her berth.

Belin led the horse away to the shop, leaving Nessa and Kira alone.

“Perhaps this would be a good time for your first lesson in combat,” Nessa said.

“I am ready,” Kira replied. Indeed, she felt an eagerness to learn to kill. The image of the beast that had wounded Hero so badly as to take him from her floated up into her mind, giving her focus, and she learned well.

Nessa handed Kira the shorter of her swords, and they practiced a few elementary moves. To strengthen her arm, Nessa had Kira simply stand for a long time, holding the sword out before her. Some of the smaller children laughed at her until their mothers came to nervously shoo them away.

“They must not like armed strangers among their children,” Nessa said. “Come, let us wash for supper.”

Kira held the sword out to Nessa.

“No,” Nessa said. “That will be yours now. Keep it sharp and near.”

The next morning, Belin led Nessa’s horse back to her, as they prepared to leave.

“You are a warrior and her apprentice,” the Seraph stated. “If it is not intruding, might I ask your destination?”

“It’s no intrusion at all, Belin. We are your guests,” Nessa said. “We are bound for Pass-by, to the chapel of the Sword Goddess.”

“Ah, it is my joy, then, to know a Sword Maiden?”

“I am a Maiden, yes,” Nessa said, not without some pride.

“Would it be out of place then, to offer and to request?” the Seraph said, in the peculiar vernacular of the dealmaker.

“I would listen,” Nessa replied, switching to the bargaining form.

“Beyond the gate, our caravan for Steadmeet awaits,” the Belin said. “It would be my honor if you would condescend to volunteer your services to guard and protect my people and their goods on their way.”

“I would be most happy to accept the wealth of your farmstead for the privilege of guarding your people and their goods,” Nessa replied.

Having stated their agreement to bargain, several minutes of offer and counteroffer ensued, until Belin and Nessa reached agreement. Nessa and Kira would guard the wagons of the farmstead, and they would, in return, have the hospitality of the wagons, and would be given goods to barter on their own at Steadmeet, as well as a horse for Kira to ride.

On that last point, Nessa assured Kira that she would teach her to ride before she could embarrass herself. In the meantime, the new horse would carry Nessa’s armor and other belongings, and they would ride the other horse together.

About an hour later, the little caravan was under way. There were three loaded wagons, each pulled by two horses. Each had a driver and a passenger seated next to him or her with a crossbow. There were three other riders guarding the wagons, all from the stead. Nessa and Kira were the only outsiders.

One rider rode out before the wagons, leading the way, another rode a couple hundred feet to the left of the wagons, and another brought up the rear, while Nessa and Kira guarded the right flank. Occasionally, Nessa would ride a bit further out on their side of the wagons, checking over little rises and such for ambushes. In those moments, they would take a little time to teach Kira to ride, and then catch up.

By the end of the day, when the leader of the wagons, a Dwarrow named Stanold, called a halt for the night, Kira had the fundamentals of horsemanship down. Nessa remarked at what a fast learner she was, but Kira wasn’t sure if that was kindness and encouragement, or truth.

Also, the forest had disappeared behind them. Kira had a moment of panic when she realized this. But, it soon passed, and she calmed herself with the thought that she was learning to kill the beasts that had hurt Hero, and that she would return to the forest one day.

The Eternal City, Part 7

2009-02-12T20:33:00.001-06:00

"Death's Finger"! HA!

A long, low mound overlooked the village of Clover Hill, remnant of some ancient structure. Unfinished, pillar-like stones stood in an oval, encircling the top of the mound, their greenish hue contrasting sharply with the predominantly brownish surroundings.

The people of the village avoided the mound, using such epithets for it as “Doom’s Hill”, or “Death’s Finger”. None had been to the top of the mound in generations, heeding weird stories told by the elders of the elders.

This near-institutional trepidation was not entirely manufactured from the collective imagination of the villagers. There was a small grain of history behind the name of “Death’s Finger”, though none living in the village remembered. And just as well, as surely they would abandon their ancestral home, had they known what hid among them.

Within the ring of stones, hidden by weird qualities of his own, and those of the stones, stood an ancient, stooped form. He wore a squat, wide-brimmed hat, and held a black cloak tight about his emaciated form. His irises were golden, his wispy hair, gray and black. A weak beard showed itself patchily across his cheeks.

To his right, contrasting sharply with the brightness of near-noon sun floated a patch of swirling darkness. Within that darkness floated two tiny golden circles, the irises of a kindred being.

“Well?” a hissing voice from within that darkness asked. “Have you felt its death?”

“I have not,” the man answered, his own voice gravelly and weak. “I think you have failed.” His last word was laced with mockery.

The dark form allowed the provocation to pass. “Perhaps my children simply have not found it yet.”

“Ah, yes,” the old man answered. “Your children. I suppose I should mention that I did feel one of them die.”

A small growl seemed to emanate from the patch of darkness. “I suppose you would simply unleash your hordes upon it, risking our exposure!”

“I have subtler ways, also,” the old man answered. “Death comes in many forms.”

“But, few of those forms go unnoticed by the Keeper of the Record. We cannot yet afford an open conflict. You must remain hidden, for now.”

The old man said nothing.

The darkness pressed its advantage: “No, it shall be my children who do this deed, not yours.”

“Then perhaps you should go, and bid them do it right!”

The darkness laughed thinly. “As you say, O mighty King of the Dead. One last thing, though. What of the Sword Goddess. What is her game?”

“Who can know her mind?” the other replied.

“Who, indeed?” the shadow said, and faded away into the wind, leaving the King of the Dead with his thoughts.

He wondered who this little shadow godling was. It was not the Night Spirit, as it claimed to be. He suspected it was simply the collective cunning of the troll races, congealed into a nightmare, and ruling over its unwitting creators. Whatever the case, it was right: there was little the King of the Dead could do, openly. Not without alerting his enemies; and it was not time for that. Not yet.

So, the little troll god would be Death’s tool, for now. Later, it would pay for all the little insults. It would pay, and pay some more.

Below, in the village of Clover Hill, the people felt a momentary chill fall across their spines. Later that night, an infant would die in her crib, and the elders would recall that chill, and look to Death’s Finger.

The Eternal City, Part 6

2009-02-12T20:29:00.002-06:00

I am fairly certain that the word "Dwarrow" is going to change. It has been used by someone else, somewhere, and I wish to have my own word. Also, historically, it is an alternate form of the word "dwarf". I will one day think of my own word...

Gerold was a Dwarrow, and as such had little time for the scattered, meandering babble of Seraph merchants. A Dwarrow liked short, to-the-point conversations; just enough to get business done. The Dwarrow attitude matched his stature: in a word, short. They were slight of build, but possessed of a wiry musculature attached to a sturdy frame. The combination made their appearance somewhat skeletal, but not frail. Add to this their characteristic bright red skin, and their nickname, ‘fiend’, might seem to fit. They had no hair, and their eyes were uniformly black. Fond of tattoos, it was rare to find a Dwarrow with clear, untouched skin.

Even for a Dwarrow, Gerold was impatient. He disliked most non-dwarrow folk, not because of any sort of feeling of superiority; rather he felt them too gregarious, too talkative, entirely too noisy. Add to that the impression that other folk seemed to get little more done than the nice, quiet Dwarrow, and Gerold really preferred to stay home in the hills of his ancestors, where strange people were rarely seen.

Needless to say, when Gerold was informed that the tribal council needed him to travel downriver to the town of Gate Island, right in the middle of the Freesteads, he could not have been more dismayed. No amount of protestation was enough to convince the council of nine old women to send someone else. He even suggested a few names, to no avail. So, it was with great trepidation and annoyance that Gerold Deepdigger, chief tunnel engineer of the Southtend tribe in the Hills of the Well, found himself floating in a canoe with two other similarly disgruntled Dwarrows, approaching Gate Island from the west.

Gate Island, as were most of the towns of the Freesteads, was founded upon the ruins of an ancient city, the name of which had become a casualty of time. It received its current name by common usage. The island upon which the town was built was criss-crossed with a network of canals. The locals used these instead of streets. Only one road passed through Gate Island, the North-South Road which met its end in the vicinity of Clover Hill, many miles to the north, and continued on for a much further stretch to the south. In the center of the island lay a huge, ruined gate, once part of a vast collection of such structures, apparently arranged at random all over the island and the surrounding countryside.

Gate Island, despite being quite a sizable island, was not a large settlement. Gerold guessed no more than a hundred households were built along the canals, and only a few shops. The Steadmeet lay on the south shore of the Northflow River, and was bounded by a low semi-circular dike which stopped at the water on each end.

The houses were of wood, built upon thick poles about four feet above the ground. They were long structures, and the end facing the canal operated as the front of the building. A ladder led up into the darkness of the house, the entire front being open to the air. The people stored their little boats under their houses when not using them.

Most of the inhabitants of Gate Island were Seraphs. Gerold had been told this before he departed, but he had hoped the intelligence had been wrong. All of the things Gerold disliked about outsiders were traits which epitomized the average Seraph.

Seraphs were tall, pale and white-haired. Their eyes, much like those of a Dwarrow, were entirely black. Their limbs were long, and their faces seemed stretched (at least, in the eyes of Gerold, they did).

One such was at the westernmost point of the island, and greeted the little canoe as it glided near.

“Greetings travelers,” the Seraph said, its incongruously deep voice echoing out over the water. “Welcome to Gate Island.”

One of the other Dwarrows, Menold, called back, “Good day!” and the little boat traveled on.

Shortly, they neared the center of the island. Here there were a smattering of docks, and the Dwarrows steered their canoe to the shore. They tied the boat to a post of a low ramp of wood, and hauled themselves and their packs out.

They were on the north side of the island, and the opposite shore was devoid of settlement. Several cranes and other waterfowl populated the reeds, and Gerold noted a huge turtle of some sort sunning itself in the mud.

There is a fine fellow, Gerold thought. Nothing to babble on about. He goes about his business and doesn’t bother anybody else. No sooner had the words formed in his mind, than the turtle plopped into the water with a great splash, sending cranes and fish careering away from the commotion. Gerold cleared his throat uncomfortably and turned his attention upward, to the plains beyond.

There, the fawn-colored land rolled away, not quite flat, but near-enough. Gerold thought, if the light were better, he might be able to see Clover Hill. He realized immediately that he was wrong, and chided himself for thinking like a silly poet. The North-South Road, off to his right, could be seen shooting nearly straight northwest. Still a long way off, he caught sight of several small figures approaching from that direction.

Turning his attention back to the island, he found that his companions were already being accosted by the natives. Menold was discussing lodging with an ancient-looking Seraph in a dark, dingy tunic. The other Dwarrow, Mishi, the only woman among them, was approaching another, younger Seraph. This man seemed more formally dressed, and appeared to be here in an official capacity.

“When does the Steadmeet begin?” Mishi asked, not even bothering with introductions. Such was the Dwarrow efficiency of speech, that such things were deemed unnecessary unless permanent arrangements such as marriage or some other form of partnership were being discussed.

“Nine days, my Good Lady,” the Seraph replied. “I am Maselin, the Mayor of Gate Island. I attempted to greet you properly at the head of the island, but you seemed to have missed me.” He smiled in what was probably a good-natured way.

Indeed, Gerold realized, this did look like the same Seraph they had seen before. It was difficult to tell them apart, as they had little in the way of discernible features. Gerold realized he would have to start looking more closely. Surely there were some sort of fine, distinguishing marks he could use to tell them apart. Otherwise, business was going to be difficult.

“Pardon us,” Mishi was saying. “We didn’t realize.” She seemed genuinely concerned. She was good that. She was along because she was good with outsiders. She managed to get on well with them, though she seemed a perfectly normal Dwarrow in all other respects. “I am Mishi, and I am proud to speak for my partners, Gerold and Menold.” She gestured to each of them in turn.

“You seem not to have brought much in the way of goods,” Maselin said, curiously. He looked about, even into the boat.

“Our wares are small,” Mishi said. “But, they are of value.”

“Ah,” the Seraph replied. “Might we locals have a go at them first, hm?”

Mishi just barely paused. “Our instructions are that we are to await Steadmeet.” She bowed politely.

If the Seraph was offended, he hid it well. He spoke a few more pleasantries Gerold didn’t listen to, and then he went away.

Menold found out that they were among the first to arrive for Steadmeet. A few others, travelling from the south were also here and were already setting themselves up in the bazaar. Gerold suggested they do the same. A short discussion ensued as to what to do with the canoe, and the consensus was to abandon it, as they would very likely purchase wagons and livestock to carry them back upriver.

So, leaving their vessel behind, they crossed the island over the North-South Road. They crossed a wide, old timber bridge built partly on the ruins of an ancient stone span, and entered the bazaar at about the center point. They were fortunate to arrive early, and set up their tiny tent-shop on the North-South, itself, near the central location chosen by other early arrivals.

Most of the others had large wagons, full of heavy items. They saw armor, weapons, textiles, tools, a few vendors of wines and other spirits. They Dwarrows set up their small tent, but kept their product to themselves.

A Few Short Items

2009-01-14T15:27:00.004-06:00

Incomplete thoughts, perhaps. Based partly on a dream I had, and partly Burroughs-style cut-up writing.

Well imagined gossip,
like campfire chatter,
skipping the nearby,
shouting of the distance,
wailing in the evening drear
without audience or reason

looking up in the moment,
novices turn in fright,
soon they speak of the vivid virus
low-hanging, lewd and dangerous
ignorant, Living Ignorance
King in the violet nothing,
robed in black, empty distance

night converses with night
ignoring the luminous light, just beneath the hill
somewhere, someone will be the hero
travelling, concealed in that brightness
vaporous, despised, unknown and blank

Fire within fire,
bright, safe, warm
nurturing and soft,
lulling the unwary to sleep
the Eternal City of dreams
hunter and trap, ever watchful
nameless and sightless,
but sharp-eyed and carved in mind

---

the ruler of that which is made,
king in the western sky
high atop the pyramid of thrones,
far beyond the aeons
the known unknown,
that which is beyond Eleusis
Jerusalem, Rome
That which is beyond the compass of mind

temple-born empire
indwelling light
governance of will
temple of light
indwelling empire
governed by will
willed by light
temple governed
in the empire of light

---

Late revenge, kissed by defeat
left to the ancient dynasty
of little-known gods, driven
through the flat places of
blank dream canvas, falling off
of the page, dripping with the
blood of the slain past, and
empty as a bottle or a pocket

---

defeat, dealt in the ancient streets
obliterated tongues old when the Sea Peoples came,
the people, wailing in their houses, singing the dirge,
failing the slain, and dying among the rats
left and the city welcomed the sand
and went to sleep

in time, men came again, and wondered
who could they have been, who reared such a place?
they looked upon the carved walls, the broken floors
and guessed, imagined and calculated,
and did not know.

---

Who walks the length of time knows that the beginning is the end.
it turns and turns and turns,
and only ends in that final, distant light,
Oneness with the Eternal Dream.

The Eternal City, Part 5

2009-01-08T10:34:00.000-06:00

Nessa woke to the smell of cooking meat. For a moment, she imagined herself back at the fortress outside of Windhold Haven, where she had taken her training, waiting for the evening meal, gossiping with the other novices.

Soon, however, she recovered herself, and remembered. Another vision. This one more vivid than the last, in plainer language. She sat up and looked around.

A small campfire burned nearby, and the girl sat on the other side of it. Her back was to the fire, gazing southwest. Over the fire, a rabbit hung on a spit.

Nessa yawned. “Will you share your rabbit with me?” Nessa asked.

“My name is Kira,” girl said. “If we are to travel together, you might as well know my name.”

“I am glad to know it,” Nessa said, slightly embarrassed that she had skipped introductions. “I am Nessa. Thank you.”

“The rabbit is for you,” Kira said. “I’ve had mine.”

“Might we not speak face to face?” Nessa asked.

“The Firbolg sit with their backs to the fire,” Kira said. “They depend upon their night vision.”

“The Firbolg also have no need of sleep,” Nessa replied. “Not so, with us. Have you slept?”

Kira did not reply.

Nessa sat quietly for a moment, and then began to eat the rabbit. Between bites, she asked, “Would you like to tell me about Hero? The farmers at the edge of the forest tell me he is fearsome.”

“He is gentle and quiet!” Kira snapped. “They know nothing.”

“Where is he now?” Nessa asked.

“Gone,” Kira said.

“There was more blood in that battle down there than a Troll has in its body,” Nessa said. “Was Hero injured?”

Kira shifted slightly, but didn’t answer.

“It is said that the Firbolg have special places where they meet,” Nessa said. “They go there when they are wounded, also. I will help you find him when we are done.”

Finished with the rabbit, Nessa settled back down, and went to sleep. When she awoke, the sun was just poking its head over the distant mountains. Kira was asleep on the other side of the smoldering campfire.

The Eternal City, Part 4

2009-01-08T10:33:00.000-06:00

Nessa came upon the site of the battle in the early afternoon. The Troll’s carcass had been left to rot, to feed the soil, and the forest creatures. It looked like some of the forest’s bolder inhabitants had already had their share.

She continued on. She figured the Firbolg would have climbed the hill to get a look around. As she emerged from the trees, she found, standing at the top of the hill, a girl of about fifteen. She was thin-faced, slightly built, but wiry. Nessa couldn’t tell what color her eyes were, but her hair was brown, and her skin was pale. She stared down at Nessa, unsmiling. The girl’s smudged face showed clearly the signs of tears. Something tragic had happened here. Nessa could guess what it was.

Leaving her horse near the trees, Nessa removed her sword, as well. Then she began to slowly climb the hill, arms at her sides. About halfway there, about forty feet from the top of the hill, the girl spoke.

“You’ve been following us,” she said.

Nessa stopped walking and nodded. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“I’ve been looking for you for months,” Nessa replied. “I was sent to you.”

“For what?” The girl’s accent was thick, and her voice thin from lack of use.

“I’ve been sent to escort you to the city of Pass-By,” Nessa said. “The Sword Goddess sent me to bring you to her chapel there.”

“Hero said I should go with you.”

There was a note of heartbreak in that, Nessa thought. What if the girl refused to be taken? Would it be right to force her?

“Will you?” Nessa asked.

“I’ve never been to a city,” the girl said. “I don’t think I even know what the word means.”

“It is a big place,” Nessa said. “With lots of people. But, I will protect you.”

“Are there Trolls in this city?”

“No,” Nessa replied. “You will be safe from Trolls in Pass-By.”

“I don’t want to be safe from them,” the girl said, darkly. “I want to kill them.”

As she said these words, Nessa saw light begin to emanate from a point just behind her. The girl’s face was soon obscured, and then the landscape all around. The light became so bright, Nessa wanted to look away, but couldn’t. All she could see was the bright golden light and the dark silhouette of the girl.

A voice, distant but distinct, spoke inside her head: “Train this one, and bring her to me.”

The Eternal City, Part 3

2009-01-08T10:32:00.000-06:00

Hero had insisted they wait for their pursuer, instead of continuing their flight. Kira had been against it. She didn’t understand how he could know what was chasing them, or even if he did. He wouldn’t tell her anything, just that they would wait.

Silently, Kira faced the southwest, where the trees were relatively thin. They were near the top of a hill, and they could see a great distance. Forest spread out all around them, but Kira could make out the barest light brown of the plains in the far distance. Down the hill, the trees lay thickly, keeping the forest floor cool and dark. She longed to be back under the canopy, striding along beside Hero, away from whatever was chasing them.

Hero stood a few feet to her right, also looking toward the forest in the southwest. Suddenly, she saw him tense from the corner of her eye. She looked to where his eyes were planted. A deeper shadow was emerging from the forest, accompanied by a sound of crashing. Under the noise of cracking branches, she heard the low growl of something coming for them.

Before the monster had emerged from the canopy, Hero was bolting down the hill toward it. The monster was taller than Hero, covered in thick, black fur. Its arms and legs were overlong, for its torso, and all four limbs ended in long, black talons. Its head was large and held a mouth full of flashing white teeth.

The snarling sound emanating from the monster was like that of a boar and wildcat combined. When it saw Hero coming at it, the monster stopped and spread its arms, catching him in a four-limbed hug. The two tumbled back out of sight, under the trees.

Without warning, three more giant forms came over the hill, behind Kira. They flashed with impossible speed past her, but she immediately recognized them. Firbolgs! The first she had ever seen, aside from Hero. In seconds they were into the trees. The Troll could be heard snarling and snapping at its foes, roaring challenges. The Firbolgs, as far as Kira could discern, fought silently. In a few moments, the Troll fell mute.

It was some time before any Firbolg emerged from the trees. When they did, Kira let out a desperate cry. Two of the Firbolgs who had passed her on the hill were carrying Hero. He was bleeding badly from several wounds. They brought him to the top of the hill, and lay him down. One of them remained with him, while the other returned to where Kira stood silently, stunned.

The Firbolg regarded Kira for a moment, head tilted slightly to one side, and strode past her, back into the trees. Kira climbed the hill and came to kneel next to Hero.

He was conscious, but barely.The other Firbolg worked silently to staunch wounds. For the first time in months, Hero spoke to her in her own language.

“I am sorry,” he said, haltingly, unused to any vocal language. “My wounds will heal. But, not for a long time. I must go in to care.”

“I go where you go,” Kira sobbed.

“No,” he said.

She didn’t understand. What could he mean? She had always been with him, almost as long as she could remember. He was her only family, and her only friend. She couldn’t even remember her parents’ faces. She couldn’t imagine being without him.

“I have to,” she said, almost hysterical now. “Please!”

“The Troll was not our tracker,” Hero said, his voice a deep rumble of a whisper. “She still approaches. She comes for you. She is a sword-maiden, and she is the key to your future. Go with her.”

“But, I don’t want to!” Kira wailed.

“You must stop this,” Hero said. “When I heal, I will find you, or you will find me. We will see each other again.” At this, Hero’s eyes closed and he passed from consciousness. The other Firbolg lifted him up, and began to run, north.

Kira, with no hope of keeping up, could only stand and watch them disappear into the forest.

The Eternal City, Part 2

2009-01-08T10:30:00.000-06:00

Nessa figured she was less than a day behind the Firbolg. She was sure the girl would be with him, even though there were no signs of her in the meager evidence of her companion’s passage. He was probably carrying her; he would move faster, this way, and would leave less trace.

The tales the farmers told of the Firbolg were of a fearsome, lumbering monster. That was the usual impression given by human farmers regarding anything that came out of the forest to raid their crops, but she knew that this could be a very apt description of an enraged Firbolg. She also knew, however, that they were largely a peaceful, retiring race. They valued their isolation such that they had little to do with each other, much less anyone of another race.

This, of course, led Nessa to wonder, not for the first time, what this particular Firbolg was doing with a young human girl. Neither would be captive of the other; this made no sense. Some other bond must have formed, probably early in the girl’s life. Despite their gentle nature, Nessa found it difficult to believe that the Firbolg had adopted an orphan. Yet, what else?

She hoped to overtake the pair the next day. As she gazed up at the stars, she wondered what the encounter would be like. The Firbolg was no doubt already wondering who could track him so well. He might even have an idea of who she was. So, he would not be expecting a fight. This was good, as she didn’t want to fight, either.

In ancient times, the sword-maidens and the Firbolg had cooperated, thought few in this time were aware of the connection. It was millennia ago, and most people were concerned with this season, and the next. But, the Firbolg, like the sword-maidens, kept the memory. Nessa sincerely hoped her quarry recalled the spirit of those times.

Also, she could be fairly sure she had been spotted by other Firbolg. They had ways of relaying news, and her description would be part of this. So, she kept her armor stowed away on her horse, and carried only the shorter of her two swords. She was careful to leave as little trace of her passing as she could. The Firbolg would respect this, as they considered themselves, so the tales said, keepers of this forest.

She slept well, if lightly, under the bright splash of stars that showed through the canopy. Awaking before sunrise, she led her horse through the forest, not bothering to mount. Something told her she would meet her quarry today.

Two hours into her trek, another trail crossed the one she followed. This trail was far different from the Firbolg’s, and she recognized it as readily. A swath of broken dirt, snapped branches and flattened vegetation marked the passage of a Black Troll.

It was the only species of Troll to travel in the daylight, all other species being nocturnal, and preferring cave-systems. Black Trolls usually stuck to the open plain, and would not be at home, and certainly not welcome, in this forest. It was strange to find one crashing through here.

Nessa’s curiosity nearly got the better of her, but she stuck to her original plan. The Firbolg, if they were inclined to interfere, would take care of the Troll. She might even have felt bad for the beast, if she hadn’t had some experience fighting them.

She pushed on and, to her surprise, an hour later, the Troll’s swath of destruction had circled back around and crossed her path again. This time, the monster seemed to find the same trail she was following, completely obscuring the Firbolg’s passage. Cursing under her breath, she resigned herself to the possibility that she would be facing a Troll as well as a delay in her rendezvous.

Knave

2008-12-25T16:11:00.000-06:00

Weird and black in the light,
Hidden without shadow, bright black
Glowing, humming, and razor-sharp,
Heavy-beaked, keen-eyed and impudent,
Half-maker watches the unguarded roads

As the day is born, the day-star rising
Transforming darkness to virginal white,
Street-born refugee, smudge-faced and beautiful
Crosses in her eyes, singing the light
The devil vanishing in transformation to love

The Knave, strange and awake,
Asks his way in a land where he knows no one,
Their minds opaque, murky and dark
Bright black, weird in the light
The Half-maker's folk, shadows in the vapor

Still he seeks that other country,
Where Knave becomes Knight, all his wounds in front
Clad in violet, conversing with the dark
Pleading in the hope of a shift
When such a man Awakens to the Cup!

Christmas, 2008

2008-12-12T14:02:00.003-06:00

Icons speak fire through gold.
Awake! Awake! Be not taken in by the world!
The King came and went, and still you sleep,
leaden and unknowing.

The Divine Spark sputters,
but does not go out, tended by unseen hands,
the luminous Yes, just beyond reach.
Alas! the devil is no more,

But He who tests his own,
still He breathes beneath all things,
ancient and terrible, dazzling,
But His light is only a candle,

Next to the light the icons whisper.
Our blind eyes cannot see,
And must be burnt away.
Awake! Awake! The King has come and gone.

The Eternal City, Part 1

2008-12-03T10:20:00.004-06:00

This is the beginning of a long story I will be serializing here. I hope to update it once per week, but we'll see how that goes. It is in the nature of a rough draft, as I am writing it essentially as it appears here. I hope you enjoy it.

“Where are you, Hero? I wasn’t gone that long.”

It was the edge of the forest. Kira knew Hero didn’t like to be so close to the settlements. But, she knew he understood the necessity. She’d been waiting for him for an hour after her return from the farm-hold. It was within view of the trees, and Hero’s sight was considerably better than hers, so she knew he would have been able to see her the whole time.

When she had spoken, it had been quietly, the calm of her voice belying the irritation she felt inside. She understood his trepidation. The farmers and other settlers didn’t care for his kind, and they generally drove them off on the exceedingly rare occasions the two parties had the opportunity to interact.

Part of her irritation stemmed from the fact that he wasn’t there to protect her. She had been at the edges of the farm-stead stealing, and had she been spotted there would have been a chase. The only way the chase would have been broken off would have been the appearance of Hero.

The plan, as it had been for years, was that Kira would sneak into the fields under the eye of Hero. If she was spotted and chased, Hero would emerge from the trees, shocking the farmers into stopping. He would then scoop Kira up and they would flee at a speed the farmers could not match.

But, he was nowhere to be found this time. Neither could she track him. He was by far the superior woodsman, and had been born with the natural habit of concealing his movements from others. It was how his kind had survived for longer than anyone could remember.

She waited for a few more minutes, intending to set out looking for him if he didn’t show. Soon, however, she heard a familiar rustle in the gathering dusk. A moment later, Hero emerged from the shadows.

He was taller than any man, almost by half. His bulk was also much greater, and his reach and musculature matched. Green skin was hidden only atop his head and on his chin by darker green hair. Small round ears sat astride a great round head. His eyes were big and piercing with light gray irises. A sharp intellect shown in them, but one that was deeply estranged from the minds of humans. Even Kira, who had been travelling with Hero for years, often didn’t understand the things he did. His mouth was wide and thin-lipped, and sat beneath a broad nose with wide nostrils.

Men called Hero’s people the Firbolg. They were ancient beyond the ken of most of the other peoples, and were widely feared. Legend tied them mysteriously to the ancient ruins scattered about the countryside.

We are followed. Hero used the sign-language of his people. They had vocal ability, but used it only rarely. He knew Kira’s language, but they used Hero’s most often. The sign he used for “followed” also meant “hunted”, but Hero’s demeanor led Kira to interpret it in the less threatening way.

Who? She asked. Hero shrugged, a mannerism adopted from his companion. The gesture was far grander when performed by someone of his size, and therefore seemed much more emphatic than the off-hand way Kira used it.

We should travel on, he said. Clearly, Hero didn’t feel threatened by the follower, but the fact they were being tracked was, in itself, a reason to keep moving. Especially for a Firbolg. They had no craving for contact with other peoples, Hero’s relationship with Kira notwithstanding.

To make themselves harder to track, Kira climbed on to the Firbolg’s shoulders. They had travelled this way often over the years, and Hero was practiced at avoiding branches low enough to knock Kira down.

While they travelled, they at some of the fruit and vegetables Kira had taken. Hero had a couple of rabbits in his pouch, and Kira promised to cook them up when he deemed it safe to camp.

They moved deeper into the trees, familiar with this part of the forest. The Firbolg were forest creatures, and Hero, so far as Kira knew, had never been outside of the cover of the trees. Save, of course, for the few times he had come to her rescue at the farms. So, they both knew the forest pretty well.

Hero finally stopped moving late into the night. The sky beyond the trees was clear, and the moon shown bright in a little clearing by a low rock out-cropping. Kira laid out her bed beneath the rock, and prepared a small fire. Years before, when she still lived among her own kind, her mother had taught her a few small tricks that she was told to keep to herself. One was the trick of making a smokeless fire. A small gesture with the fingers of her left hand, a muttered phrase in a language she didn’t understand, and she had a merry little fire to cook by; and there would be no column of smoke to give away their location, no matter how damp the wood.

Hero, as was his habit, sat with his back to the fire while he ate. Kira knew, he preferred to feel the heat on his back, rather than his face. Also, it helped to keep his eyes adjusted to the darkness. He was always watchful and suspicious, but especially now, when they were being tracked.

Kira extinguished the fire before she settled in to her bed. Getting rest was rarely a problem for her, since her companion had no need of sleep. He kept watch all night, most nights. Some nights, he slipped away for a few hours.

Kira suspected he went off to visit with others of his kind, though she had never seen another Firbolg. She sometimes asked him where he went, but he refused to say. Actually, it was more like he ignored her, simply not answering.

This night, however, he remained nearby, watchful.

Something New, Soon

2008-12-01T19:12:00.000-06:00

I'm working on something new, and will post the first bit of it soon. Hang on!

Monument

2008-11-24T09:26:00.005-06:00

Here is a fragment, meant as a preface to a longer story which never materialised. Maybe someday...

Steam puffed from the horse’s nostrils as it crunched upward through snow-covered trees. Night was falling, and the rider was aware that his pursuers were moving closer. He had lost hope of escape hours ago, but there was still one thing that kept him moving. He had changed his goal: he no longer wished to avoid his fate.

In the fading light and the growing chill, the horse reached a small clearing. The rider pulled the beast to a stop and dismounted. The mare danced briefly, sensing her master’s apprehension.

He allowed his legs to adjust for a few seconds; hours in the saddle had left them wobbly and unused to the weight of a man. Then he strode to the opposite end of the clearing and knelt down. There, he found what he was looking for.

Half-buried in a low drift, and covered in winter-dead vines stood a short monument. The stone was no more than a pillar about as high as his waist surmounted by a foot-wide disc. Upon the disc was carved a serene face, eyes half-open, nose narrow, mouth small and quiet.

He pulled vines from the face and knelt down. He said a small prayer and gazed at the face for a short time. He felt calm wash over him. It was done; he had attained this goal, at least, even if the other was lost.

In another moment, he rose and returned to his mount. Rising into the saddle, he kicked her sides and they were off, into the woods. The snow had begun again the process of burying the little monument.

Less than an hour later, five more riders thundered into the clearing. They paused, their leader examining the scene before him. He was a master tracker, but little skill was needed to see what had passed here. Their quarry had stopped to pray. He smiled through his thick, graying beard.

He spurred his great black horse closer to the monument. The light snow had not yet obscured the marks where his quarry had knelt. The bearded man snorted derisively and spat into the face of the statue. He considered raising his mace and smashing the heretical thing, but he stopped short. Somehow, he could not bring himself to do it.

He jerked his horse around and crashed back into the trees, following his enemy’s trail. His underlings followed his example, leaving the little clearing empty, once again.

Soul and Feather

2008-04-22T20:17:00.001-05:00

Compare the weight of the soul to a feather
Yours or mine would matter little
We are only human

It is the fate of man to suffer, as the Buddha told us
All life is just that
But where does that lead us?

To the truth, some would say
To Unknowing, others
Perhaps suffering is nothing more than itself

Perhaps it is unwise to agonize over the destruction of monuments to our past
Or the future of our unborn generations who have no say
Perhaps it is only a burning forest or a new highway

Tara will disappear along with our trees and nothing will be the same
But nothing is ever the same
And there is nothing new under the sun

Only man’s suffering over the loss of his past and his future
Can influence the weight of his heart against the feather of Truth
It is that suffering that can alter the balance

Wife

2008-01-13T11:38:00.000-06:00

My wife got a spinning wheel. For those of you who do not know what that is, it is a thing that one uses to make yarn with one's feet. For pictures and other entertaining tidbits, see this: www.gotaspinningwheel.blogspot.com

An Eloquent Statement of Truth

2007-06-18T17:09:00.000-05:00

Capitalism, which claims to produce Order by means of the reproduction of desire, in fact originates in the production of scarcity, and can only reproduce itself in unfulfillment, negation, and alienation. As the Spectacle disintegrates ... it reveals the fleshless bones of the Commodity. Like those tranced travelers in Irish fairy tales who visit the Otherworld and seem to dine on supernatural delicacies, we wake in a bleary dawn with ashes in our mouths.

-Someone said this, but I don't recall who (it wasn't me, but I agree)

Trope

2007-05-20T19:16:00.000-05:00

Wriggling, worm-infested gut-beasts
Screaming for sustenance
Vomiting, shitting and otherwise excreting
Demanding all of reality conform to their whim
Lost in their own howling wilderness

And then they speak
Mystifying things
Invoking the nameless horrors of the truly fucked
Bleeding a screeching whine into our heads
A cacophony of rotting psyche

Finally, we succumb, automaton-like, to the law of age
And set them free, unwanted, into the seething masses
Full of the same wantings, undeveloped and unready
So they may consume all about them
Without thought, memory or conscience

A Quote

2007-05-20T18:53:00.001-05:00

The Immortal One was known to the Greeks as Dionysos; to the Jews as Elijah; to the Christians as Jesus. He moves on when each human host dies, and thus is never killed or caught. Hence Jesus on the cross said, "Eli, Eli, lama Sabachthani," to which some of those present correctly said, "The man is calling on Elijah." Elijah had left him and he died alone.

Philip K Dick

Destiny (The First of Seven)

2007-04-22T17:40:00.001-05:00

Most think of Destiny as an ending,
The final place where the road stops,
But this is only partly so,
Destiny is always first,
And all else that is follows after,
Grinding on in colors, smells, flavors,
Wars, betrayals, trips to the grocery store,
And, of course, deaths,
But that is the Destiny of us all,
And yet this is also not the end.

(don't believe me?
There is, at least, memory,
And that is less complete with every passing moment.
That is no kind of Destiny.)

So, now:
What can we believe of Destiny?
Is it, as the name suggests, Destination?
What Destination can there be, when time flows on?
There are too many questions here, and no answers.

A ghost, then,
Without substance,
Nothing.

Perhaps, Destiny is simply movement,
Purposeless, blank and riverine,
A kind of desolation we are born into,
Tasked with overcoming, and creating on our own.

You Are Listening...

2007-04-20T19:09:00.000-05:00

Light fades at dusk,
but returns with the buzzing lamps
illuminating the sidewalk.
Walking through the puddles of
glowing drab orange,
lost in the fogginess it emanates,

You listen,
as always,
to the litany running sleeplessly through your head,
splashed by the expensive thumping car
screeching its blue glow into your skull,
until light fades at dawn,
returns with the same sun
burning the concrete beneath your shoes.

---

Bridges are crossed in the breezes
of trucks
speeding heavily
through a hapless, useless, redundant
town where things change
but just enough to raise prices
and push the people on
towards something
else
somewhere
else
replaced by more people
younger
maybe richer
probably no more intelligent
crossing bridges in breezes

---

Macy Gray says "having money sure is nice"
don't fear
I must agree
but there are problems with it, too

---

I have no intention of paying for uncommitted crimes.
Taxes and the RIAA are criminal and I pay them too much.
So, I will keep that to myself, and remain the self everyone sees,
and will see,
willingly.

---

I guess he got laid off
on american TV
ordering chinese on a
transparent green phone
too tired by the time the parade rained to put up much of a fight

---

When you give, you certainly do receive,
Cupid with wide eyes,
Stupid with arrows in his chest.

---

Cold and white fluorescence killing
What it touches
Touching what it reaches
Making fun of paying attentions
Charming the attack before
The minion's opinion
Charging the weasel with giving bonuses to the mostly deserving.

Greetings

2007-04-20T17:39:00.000-05:00

Greetings from the Tree of Life
This is a time for all good things
Think of potential
Dream of extension and retention
Armed with distension and permissive attention
Plaguing the stage with corrective rage
For the money.

Greetings from the River of Sleep
Eat a nice meal and let your mind drift
Into cathode ray tube thought dilution
Watch the shiny new people
and fuck your mind into submission.

Greetings from the Tooth Fairy
Believing the believers really believe
Buy in and everyone looks like a terrorist
Richer rich people makes the rest of us better and happier
Just keep saying it and it will become true
A few more dead soldiers just might do the trick
You are free
In Santa We Trust.

The Variety of Experience

2007-04-18T20:22:00.000-05:00

Dreaming and shifting colors
without light
sight
core philosophies or moral compass
voting for absolutes
getting half-measures
compromises
deceptions
focusing on groups, telling you
what to think,
say, be.

---

What the hell do we know anyway?
There is always something
strange
gratifying
bizarre
in the processes that are the
engine of our culture
dynamic
fluid
crazy and winding down
we forget to disbelieve and fall
into pits of propaganda
false promises
lies
Buffets of hectoring ineptitude
attractive, senseless and cold.
We love our false security and hug it to our breast.
We love our culture and hug it to our breast.

---

Our cake is eaten, too
delicious,
like the clicking of a baseball card in the spokes of our bicycle
life clatters by
eating our faces, and spitting them back out
shrivelled, but etched with
invaluable experience never to be given back
bought dearly, shared
exhaustively
tediously
always readily
usually unbidden
ever unheeded
eaten, but undigested.

---

We know everything at any given age
though we should know better and get smarter.
Or something.

---

I have never gone whoring in Thailand
But I have been to the clubs
where dancing twenty-somethings entice or repulse and negotiate
settling on a price figured in breakfasts, drinks or
just a presence, a lessening of solitude,
isolation,
small price to pay.

---

I continually float
from one to the other
perpetually undecided
afraid, probably, of branding
but also genuine in indecision and vacillation

Dedication

2007-04-18T20:09:00.000-05:00

Let's just see where things go, shall we

In a tempo-less, yet accelerating
existence, does one
act
on instinct or waste
time researching
dreaming
trying
to understand?
And what difference does it make anyway?

Everybody loses, and nothing
finally
is resolved.

So, relax and enjoy the fruits of your sloth