Byzantium: The Last Rights of Nowhere by S. Weasel

Byzantium: The Last Rights of Nowhere

Byzantium: The Last Rights of Nowhere was printed by Lulu Publishing. All written works as well as the rights to the Weasel character in this collection are Copyright © 2011-2012 Larry Patterson Illustration of the Weasel character is Copyright © 2011 Jeremy Lindquist Illustration for the poem Shimmer Copyright © S. Smiley

“Go moan for man. It's the pathos of people that gets us down, all the lovers in this dream. ” — Jack Kerouac, On the Road

imagine a world without the words i hitched a ride on an airplane rode it wherever it wanted to go sat through the pushes and the pulls and closed my eyes to see this story without words buti never had to imagine the words never existed i rode this plane all night long made a stop in a town i had never heard of and draped my fingers on its surface just like god would if he were alive it was the only one to gently place a bullet in my heart and send me off on my way wanting badly to return i just never caught my plane

Notes from a Cardboard Sky If ever were a hurricane lighter than air and driven into temples filled with people, it would be honored as God. They would bow while men and women dressed for communion services, and they would beg, fight and die. As celebrations burst out into the heavens, they would lift up their hands, respecting new marriages, and new souls set free into the spiritual world. These are our requiemsâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; our history laid out for convenience, as we ascend beyond the clouds. This is what it feels to die, only infinitely more-so on the body, for it senses what the soul refuses to understand.

Nature of My Dig I don’t have an alarm clock. I could say something poetic, something like My Will is my alarm clock, but what point does it set itself out to make? What effect would it give? That line is like most; overused and fashioning a sense of dignity among a thrown public, only to be voraciously forgotten when language is hacked away, yet believed to be expanded. We all have our own digs in life, but we rarely spare a grain of sand to allow ourselves to dream about them. There is no time to think, like the past was never thought about inside a small beat of whispered exhaustion. A struggle—A fight, but not a war of tradition inside weak marrow singing for its providential meal. That’s the nature of my dig. No one ever remembers to forget, and yet they teach themselves to forget that they forgot. To ride up on the right street and play jazz styled mind tricks when the mind specifically asked for blues. It sits up top, close to the heavens, looking and breathing down on you while you paint your own canvas, filling it with desires a killer would not touch. This rounded material hosts its own saga—and sometimes that saga produces shorter episodes of no relation save for sheer bursts of mighty inspirational thoughts along a speedy process. A diary of dead, of life, of any possible thing it could ever dream or hold great longing for in its written, beating heart! But never love. On this sunny afternoon, because it’s always sunny and never 6

dark, they present with broken glass and cramped hands their storyâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;an empire fitting on their fingertips. It is a daily occurrence; an aftermath never dreamed. But who remembers dreams of infrared so vividly to enlighten us on the matter? It all ends the same, on a market in some run down mom and pop shop, waiting with forgotten literature, a quarter tossed at it for lack of pity.

Philosophy Piggly Piggly wiggly Piggly wiggly squiggly winks! What an odd combination of words, I doubt anyone knows what it means (I do, but I’m the one who gives it meaning). The words are as holy as the Bible itself (if it is indeed holy and not just a book). Great Jesus Piggly Wiggly Squiggly Winks! Piglets = Bacon seeds Words are words, and the meanings are of an entirely different universe. Piggly flop Piggly stop Piggly drop

NOTHING

If chicken is being eaten, the rooster has nothing to fear. If bacon is being eaten, Piggly wiggly cries, but the cow sings “Glory Glory Hallelujah.” This guy’s asking serious questions… Side tracked by chaotic, ranch-covered animal kingdom. If you’re reading this, take this poem to heart! For the true meaning behind Great Jesus Piggly Wiggly Squiggly Winks = In the end, everything we do is just everything we’ve done.

1 A.M. He walked in the dining room, intestines wrapped around his fingers. His sins spilled on the floor from his belly leaving a clotted sangria. His mouth spat out his life while his breath screamed amidst the clouded cigarette air: “Her face had never whipped into a man in all her fucking existence. The eyes of God have never lived! The chains from her teeth…” raising his entrails to us all, we could never see the pain from his tears. “Burn…this…house!” His hands dropped his body, and slowly he dissolved.

Sanctuary He was terrified at the image before him. A boy walks up, holding his eyes in his hand while blood was pouring from the sockets, and whispers, “This is what you’ve taken from me. My life. My soul. This is your stolen prize.” The man fell to the floor and started to inch back, away from the child, but lost all strength. The eyes fell into his lap, pupils staring directly at him. Before the man could react the boy disappeared, and the eyes were gone. In the living room the television screamed as it was turned on, “Today’s top stories, there is still no word on the disappearance of a missing ten year old boy. As we reported last week, Conner Williams was last seen at a local Tweety Mart. Authorities are offering a reward for any information that would lead to finding Conner,” a picture of the boy was displayed on the screen. He gazed at it as if he were staring into the eyes of God. His hand reached out as if he were brushing away the boy’s hair from his face to uncover the brown eyes that were peering at him earlier, and then moved down the boys pale cheek, making a stroke like he was wiping a tear away. The man left the television on as he walked into the next room, shelves hung on each wall, filled with lit candles. Each candle held a picture of a different child. He walked to the back wall which had a window placed in the middle splitting the hanging shelf in two. He brought out a new candle, lit it, and then placed a picture of the boy carrying his eyes. It was the same picture of Conner that the news had released. 10

“Killer…” a voice shot out of the dimly lit room. The man looked around the room, seeing nothing but empty space. His breathing became more labored, and his heart began to beat faster. “Killer,” the voice spoke again. His breath came out like a dense fog on an early morning, and his body began to tremble, either out of fear, or cold, or both. He walked out of the room, and as he shuts the door a wooden sign with the word Sanctuary carved in it bounces on and off making an echoing noise in the hallway. The man stood still for a moment. He noticed that the television was off, and allowed the silence to surround him. Adrenaline began to flow through his body, for he was no longer alone. The house was so dark that he could not see the intruder. He heard their footsteps, and felt a breeze pass by him. He listened closely to the noise. They were small footsteps. They were children’s footsteps. A moment of listening to the intruders and he knew where they were. He opened the door to the sanctuary, and standing before him were the children from his candles, eye sockets dripping with blood, while they held their eyes. The room behind them started to fade, as the children laughed and cried hysterically. He wanted to scream, to make some sensible noise to keep away the horror in the sanctuary, but he could not gain control of his voice. The children reached out and grabbed his hands, pulled him in, and forced the door shut. Their laughter lingered in the now empty house. 11

A few hours had passed and there were police cars driving up. They walked around to the side of the house, and saw his body hanging from the window. The forgotten children looked outside, and watched the police and paramedics cut the body down. His eyes fell from his mouth and onto the grass. And as they take the body away, the children giggle and let the flame of each candle burn out, finally free from the sanctuary.

Shimmer If only I sat in a room of a dream. Empty a year ago, the sofa now provides new comfort, and the table a new place to eat. It echoes with a shimmer, a shattering hush! A dull roar hums at the start of a button. A light glow flickers on unfinished walls, and voices linger amidst popcorn air soon after the glow ends. When the roar is silenced, voices faint but never leave. 13

Modern Times I've walked to the ends of the Earth, through deserts, through country roads and over-populated cities that are filled with feces, blood, sweat, and semen polluting the atmosphere, as described by science and rejected by religion, to be debated over tea parties at the Secret Headquarters of Magic Catholicism. I talked to god last night. We got into another argument. Then, halfway through the heated debate on America's economy and health care issues, we both came to the same conclusionâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;god never existed and I was talking to myself once again. So I employed the simplest method to completely resolve the issue. That is, I threw out Imagination and traded Opinion to watch a few hours of Television. Such is the life in Modern Times.

The Silent World He sat in the café reading his paper while the world seemed to rush back and forth with a frenzied agenda that was too big to accomplish. He read about schools spying on students in their homes, the endless arguments on healthcare (good and bad), and the various murders that happened with the small time span of the night. As he flipped the next page he washed the recently read information from his brain. It appeared this page had about the same issues as the last. The only difference was the headlines and the author. He always felt that if he soaked up the information that he would eventually kill himself out of disdain over the state of the world. He was completely free from it all. He didn’t cater to politics; he made his own choices on religion, and to completely separate himself, he turned off his television. On the ground next to the man’s feet was a bag he often carried. Normally, he carried a gun in the bag along with a video camera with videos recorded from his past. There was a child trying to steal the bag away and before the man could say anything the parents came over, “We’re terribly sorry. He’s never done anything like this.” “He’s just curious,” the man told the parents. “Better to have that curiosity, the kids can really grow from it.” He smiled at the child, then the parents, then went back to his paper. As he turned the next page he watched a woman cross the street. She wore a strapless red dress revealing her pale skin mashed with dried blood that covered her arms. She was dragging an axe towards the coffee shop. This made the man very uneasy, 15

not because of the woman, but because of the people around her doing nothing. They were completely oblivious to this person. The woman slowly inched her way into the café and went up to the counter. The man behind the counter looked at the woman and asked her for her order. She raised the axe and brought it down hard into the cashier’s shoulder, and before she could force the axe out of his body, the man reading his paper fired two shots from his gun—one piercing her kidney area and the other her head, killing her instantly. He looked around the café and found that no one had noticed what had happened. They sat there drinking their coffee and discussing the agenda of the world. He looked back at the wounded cashier to find him serving another couple, then falling to the ground. The man grabbed his bag, threw it over his shoulder and walked out of the shop. He left his paper open on the table, and from the window you could make out the image on the page. The image was of a flat-screen television and on the screen was a woman with a small oval shaped pill in her hand.

Basically Cake The lights flickered as the cake was presented. In big green words on top of white icing, was written, “I’m Gay.” It was a white cake—very plain, especially since their son had baked it. As silenced simmered, the family noticed no vibrant life—a disappointed child. “Well,” said the father monotonously, “cut the cake.”

Another Train, Another Ride i was gonna knife you in the face but the grenade blew the car into the next trashy dimension lit the cigarette of the nearest train station collected our tickets and was warned about the cult next to us i turned to the guy next to me asked him to tell me what i’d say at the moment he said, “i’m just your average kid buddy i don’t give a fuck” i told him that was very profound she had a devil on her back maybe an angel, or an altar queen no matter the symbol, others called her the antichrist i have always wanted to meet jesus though i never imagined he’d be a pole dancer his name was lara a one-eyed doll in a midnight circus he sang songs of rampant rock-star suicides and how many childhood’s end today, eh lara? and always with a witty reply: “as many as there are songs in the key of blow me” bless me father for i have sinned says the man in the bathroom 18

a daunting moan echoing through gospel hymns he prayed all night long we only wanted to see god wanted to stare into his face and drape his eyes with our stories but the train hit a different vanishing point leaving us at a station in the outskirts of nowhere waiting on another ride, for another year

Pleading to the Sexually Deprived Donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t stick it in the toaster It does not want your love The microwave is already jealous And the stove is already pissed The Television has filed for divorce Requesting child support for the remote The radio is depressed And took his unfortunate leave in the bathtub today The computer caught a virus The fridge now has an eating disorder The freezer is just a cold bitch So please, for the love of god Quit fucking the toaster!

Summertime it is summer the oracle of screeching heat we stretch out below the fiery skies, while people in shorts, sandals and summer dresses stroll by this heat is known all over the world, I say and you smile and respond with a hint of laughter, what if all the leaders of the world, feared by many, appeared at once in the same summer dress? the pale, wrinkly, old and dry skin exposed to the public. i let the earthâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s breath sweep across my face, my only relief, and respond, the world would ball up their gossip, much like the heat is balled up at the end of summer, and wait for the new controversy to appear, leaving the past to deal with itself

Elderly Vengeance or Maybe Dementia The old woman wrapped her Coca-Cola box and walked it outside to the edge of the driveway. The sun was barely rising as she staggered across the street. Raising the box she screamed, “Fuck You! This is my land!” and threw the package onto the neighbor’s lawn. Seconds past, and the package illuminated the sky.

Gunfight She pushed the stroller, baby asleep, on the sidewalk for the usual afternoon walk. Two men, on a motorcycle zoom through the park. They pulled a gun, and shot two bullets, both missing. She pulled her handgun, and fired one bullet hitting the driver. She fired a second bullet, killing the gunman. The baby sleeps.

Vegetables Are Dangerous People Police surrounded the farmer’s home, hostages were taken, and no one was backing down for complete control over the situation. In the barn was a little girl, hiding from the mess outside. She was about seven or eight years of age, and didn’t understand why the police were so intolerant of their food. “The government has had enough,” she spoke quietly. She remembered all the times she had to keep quiet about the plants they grew. She was always told to lie whenever someone had asked her about their farm. “I believe we’re growing carrots now. Lots of carrots.” No one ever bothered to ask any more of the child. Foolishness, the world saw it as. She had loved carrots all her life, and could tell you all the different ways you could cook them. She even had some hidden in her hiding spot for snacks, but she never touched them. They came for her family, currently inside the home with three hostages taken. They were visitors, new friends made a week ago. Now, they were the hostages who made a poor choice when it came to trusting people. Guns were waved and warning shots were fired; signaling the “don’t come near here or everyone is dead” speech. It’s always a wonder how so many actions can speak volumes rather than words. The gunmen in the home were completely wired on various energy drinks and cups of caffeine. Think of them as having eight big gulps from the corner store filled with straight black coffee. Their hands were trembling and the 23

weapons carried hare triggers. There was no time for games. There never was any time for games, but there was always time for family. She never understood why the government hated their crop. Was it their culture? Or maybe the fact that they were Hispanic growing nice green vegetables for the world to enjoy? Sadly, the family never informed the young child (because what child can keep a secret?) that even though they had vegetables like carrots and green beans being grown out in the fields, they also had marijuana plants covering the majority of their land. The windows were closed up, and there was no way of getting a target shot with the snipers in any place. With cameras implemented throughout the area, they were able to watch the police officer’s movement. Every time an officer would get the courage to go near, a shot would be fired. Everyone kept their distance from the home as the hours passed by. The ones in the home could last for days. There was much food and water to last them half a life time. Hours had passed on, turning the afternoon to night. The sun punched out, deciding it didn’t feel like working overtime, and the moon waddled to its cyclical post. They were still bargaining back and forth this for that, money for hostages. The little girl hiding in the barn had had enough. She stood up and said, “The government has had enough and I’ve had enough. It’s time for action.” She took her beloved snacking carrots and taped them to her chest. She attached 24

string like she saw in one of her Dad’s many action DVD’s and held a small box. She threw on her jacket, and walked outside in front of all the officers. Confusion struck the law enforcement, wondering if this were a gimmick or if that was really a bomb strapped to the little girl’s chest. She walked to the middle of the area, in front of the door and screamed as loud as she could, “Vegetables cure obesity you fat fucks!” A new recruit was on the team that day. He was nervous and ready to shoot at anything. The recruit had just finished eating his fast made burger cooked with a couple different types of grease and oil, artificially made sugar and sodium. One would even venture to say that the burger was never real, just some replication of hamburger meat doctored up to make the customer think it is real, and maybe a little extra ingredient to make the customer come back frequently. He gulped down his carbonated sugar filled beverage and let the adrenaline rush through his veins. He saw the girl and raised his firearm, aiming it right for her head. There was no time wasted when he fired two shots—one barely grazing the girls arm and breaking a bottle of whisky sitting on the porch, and the second shooting out a light bulb which spit out sparks and lit the liquor on fire. Blood dripped from the little girls arm as she began to cry. Her father ran out the front door, fired off a few bullets and grabbed the girl, but before he made it back the police fired back and their bullets demolished his head. The mother ran out screaming and had two Molotov cocktails in her hands. She threw them at the officers making sure she hit the trucks with flash bombs and other ammunition. The mother grabbed the girl, ran back 25

inside, and locked the door. The hostages had already left, taking their chances by running out the back of the house, however the ammunition truck was creating chaos and no one could understand if anyone was shooting or just standing around. The fire began to spread and the mother ran out the back door towards the barn and uncovered a car hidden for emergencies. They jumped into the vehicle and drove off into the night, hoping the police wouldn’t notice. But their hopes were crushed as they saw two police cars chasing them. It began to rain at that moment as the mother forced the speedometer over a few hundred miles. A couple of miles up the road there was a sign that warned drivers of the bridge that was out, so the mother sped up faster, hoping once again that she could force this car over the hole and into the other side. The little girl saw two round figures rustling about the floor boards. She picked them up, and knew exactly what they were. They were their safety from the cops. They were grenades. Television has taught this child much, as she pulls the pins, rolls down the windows, and throws them both towards the police cars. The getaway car flew over the hole in the bridge as the two explosives ripped the officer’s cars apart. The mother’s hopes were answered this time as the car made it across the bridge, but flipped over due to the rain making the roads slick and unstable. The car rolled one…two…three…four times finally landing upside down and killing its passengers save for the little girl, crying from the pain and loss of her family. 26

Somewhere I My body quaked underneath the warmth of strangling exhaust fumesâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;A chilled sense of spring. Cracks from the ground merged with the cracks on my feet, creating a map of miles often traveled. They were placed in boxes, and left alone in closets. I never saw themâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; the wrinkles from their pasty skin, how they smile at their home. II Someone walked across my grave. I was no longer the collar-up switchblade on the dance-floor twisting with the ghosts of tattered angels. I thought that maybe, if I piled enough dirt I could find the world. I just turned deaf. There are as many burning guitars as there are burning 27

doves. Their vibrance raged against the bars of my rib cage. I lie on the ground, waiting for the Earth to welcome me back home as the voices burst through. Their words simmering into the summer back-roads of the next small town. Their gardens are never warm enough. III. I knew Mercy once. He was a stick of Novocain into a morphine-filled heart, lacking the grace to smile, and it was amazing those nights he was happy to see me. So I dropped wishes into wells and hoped for a miracle, but the manager said there were no refunds. I stuck out my thumb, hitch-hiked all across the world, for I had been living in the future for too long; the present has never seen my face. 28

My shoes are stitched with songs about somewhere Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve never heard of, but I know Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve been there before. If I lift up my hand I can gently touch its surface. Someday bury me there, underneath its stale utopian waters, and when my heart returns, point it to Somewhere.

Loveless Disappointed He stood over her, calm and relaxed breath, but a twisted face, filled with disgust. The passion filled nights, long summer drives to nowhere, anywhere, played in the cloudsâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;carriers of memories, but he was never satisfied. He loved without love. She died for him, but it was never enough, as he leaves her behind.

Awakening Do you remember, in the ages of innocence—if ever were such a time— asking, “why does the earth spin like a slight whirlwind?” Years past and I never answered. But how can one answer such a vast thought? Nature called us to different paths, different streets. Why does this world spin? When the trees have lost their last leaf, and the winds have taken them, crying out the beggar’s lament while people shiver for spring and sweat for fall, scrounging their last meals surviving as they can, they are told the Messiah has saved them from hard times. Freedom without freedom. Love without love. Maybe, one day, when love is love again, its rugged metamorphosis will be complete.

Alive and on Fire we lay on leaves smeared across an earth-soaked canvas ochre clinging to a riotous threshold as you take my hand light the kerosene, for the morning has never felt so alive

Stream of Consciousness We’ve all been sent upon a mission to conquer lands of magik gods or leaders. God damn, I’m tired of bein’ sick and I’m sick of bein’ tired. When will the mind of the human body escape from the chains of an old, dark empire and scream out with bleeding, unprocessed–untouched thought: “We are the chickens of freedom!” We drive along the lost highway of life, waiting for rescue or a requiem in our name, only to find out we are nameless and strange creatures with a pulse in the small joints in a systematic world where everything is chaotic and unclear. A barrage of new information overloads our circuitry—that is when the reprogramming begins. Soon we’ll all be rockin’ and a hoppin’ along the labyrinth, saying to each other, “I’m 964. Who are you?” Happy little roosters and chickens falling off the face of the Earth with the mind of lady vengeance recycling old story plots with pirate weasels fighting the political mongoose for a brand new magik power turning 964 into a named being —R E B I R T H !

Disposition It is a wonder, the forceful disposition of thoughts and the natural flow at which they present themselves. The rain began trudging through the skies, wandering in an endless manner until it reached its desired destination, while I sat in the student lounge, and waited for it to pass. The television was turned on low, and only one other person, a woman from the Student Life Office, besides me (after reading what felt like two hundred plus pages of Chesnutt’s Marrow of Tradition, including the extra material featuring Willie Dean Howells in the back), decided to indulge the murdering magic square. Maybe not physically murdering, but the television was so bright that it drowned out the scorching nature of the fluorescent lights around it, and thus nearly murdering ones eyesight. “Breaking news,” a news castor spoke, fighting to be heard over the loud monotonous thundering clouds above us. News tends to happen sporadically, even when it is during its own television segment, and of course by now, reports have already made it onto internet news sites, as is the nature of the internet. “We have just received a report…” that Yahoo most likely received an hour ago. “…of a seven year old child sent to the hospital in a devastating case of child abuse. The report states that Connor Thompson was rushed to the emergency room a couple hours ago, unconscious and with bruises. Doctor’s are reluctant to say if the child will make it or not at this time. We would go now live to our onsite reporter, but at the moment we are having some technical 34

difficulties. We can tell you, from the written report that our reporter has sent us, states that the Father, Bruce Thompson, is responsible for the child’s condition. The mother has not been located at this time, but police are searching for her.” By now someone else had joined the television group, placing down on the table a flyer located all over the campus, and an apple with one large bite mark on its upper self. It was a shocking story to hear alone, and an even worse thought is that the same thing happened in another state, and another, etc. The woman next to me, turned off the television (how inconsiderate of the others in the room), and spoke while doing so, “I can’t imagine a person doing such a thing to another person, much less a child.” It was a powerful statement, especially in the modern times which surround us. The newcomer understood the naivety so well that you could see his body tense up out of annoyance by it. The rain had lightened up, and by that sign alone it was time for me to take my leave. I slowly lifted myself, while grabbing my things, turned to the woman who sat next to me and said only a few words before I left. “You’re not trying hard enough.” I didn’t wait for a response.

The Prayers Speak with Sound You told me that I was your temple; that you sat at my steps waiting for my doors to open, so that you may pray. They never opened. Your footsteps run through hollow walls, echo dreams turned to ash. You are no longer there at the steps, but your prayers linger with the smoke.

Just Two Hitchhikers Against the Smoke We’re blind pilots, you and I, living while others eat a shrimp cocktail and smoke their next cigarette—their ears could never hear past the snow. We’ve been walkin’ a long— long time, and I can feel that it’s just gonna get longer, but filling these cracks over time, to see that smile dance across teeth, cools the aches of myself. Our feet navigate through smeared leaves left out to dry under nature’s kerosene lamp. We could never hear their rustling voice their protest, but loose change is never vigilant. It is only at the edge, and returns every year to someone’s house, someone’s pocket. We never go without a crumbling penny from the tree. Let’s travel a bit more, find our own hole away from the whiskey mornings of these faces in this crowd. I’ll stick out my thumb, and hitch a ride so that we can get lost, and be alive. 37

Just and Unjust The unpurged images of day recede; The Emperor's drunken soldiery are abed; Night resonance recedes, night walkers' song After great cathedral gong; A starlit or a moonlit dome disdains All that man is, All mere complexities, The fury and the mire of human veins.

—WB Yeats, Byzantium They forced him out of his home, dragged him through the streets, and then beat him while his wife and child watched from the window. A new revolutionary group, trying to take on crime and the government, it was almost laughable. The group had guns, automatic rifles, pistols, it doesn’t matter. All anyone needs to know is that they were guns. They’re all the same. They make loud noises, force out bullets, and ones behind the weapon murder (almost always for some “righteous” cause). Blood splattered from his face as they delivered fierce blows from their weapons. “Stop!” a group member spoke. He walked out into the middle of the crowd (they all wore ski masks, covering their faces), then exposed his face into the harsh cold of the night. He kneeled down, lifted the victim’s head, then spoke, “There is no freedom for the unjust. You knew this hour of your life would come, and now it is here. I must ask, are you afraid of your destiny? This is fate, nothing more.” There was no answer from him. His family still watched from the window, 38

screaming, crying, begging for the madness to cease, but their cries were never heard. The group stood the victim up and forced his hands above his head as if he was in a moment of prayer praising his god. The speaker of the group held his gun at the back of the victim’s neck, “Not even God can save you from all your sins. Think about all the families you have ruined, the lives lost to this regime of government. Freedom…that is what you’re taking away from this country. Freedom.” The victim took one large breath. He knew his life was going to end, so he took all his energy, and began to speak. “There is no freedom. There is no free spirit of this world. No matter what is said from either the government or revolutionary groups, there is no freedom! There is survival. Is that wrong? To survive? You can kill me, my daughter and wife, but it only shows that you, like your enemies, are murderers; fighting for survival. When you kill me you don’t stop anything, you don’t even make a dent in the system. You just kill. I pray to no god, and I ask for no forgiveness for I have done nothing wrong. There is no just, and there is no unjust. There never was.” His speech was over, and he no longer cried or begged for his life. He knew his family would survive this catastrophe, tragic as it may be; they had something no one else really has. They had strength. In the window, the mother and child are still watching the horror below. The mother beat the window, begging for this to be over. She kicked the walls, screamed, and pleaded to the silent air which consumes their home. Below that 39

window, a board shook loose from her nonstop attacks. Two hand grenades fell to the floor, the victim’s daughter bent down and picked them up, “Mommy, what are these?” The mother looked down for a moment, her eyes burned from all the tears, and she saw the weapons in her daughter’s hands. She grabbed, telling her daughter never to touch them. The mother ran up the stairs of the house, telling the child to stay in the closet, and then went to the master bedroom, the only other window facing the vicious crime. Before she opened the window and threw the grenades, she saw a bottle of vodka, stuffed a rag in the top then grabbed a lighter from her husband’s drawer next to his packet of cigarettes. She opened the window, pulled the tabs on each grenade and threw them towards the group. They each landed in the group circle. They stood there dumbfounded by what was thrown. The dark had masked the dangerous explosives and they shrugged it off as a couple of rocks. The mother then lit the rag on fire and threw the bottle out onto the front lawn, not caring where it landed. Fire would spread, she knew that. The grenades went off one after the other sending most of the group back into the fire from the Molotov cocktail. The husband took his chance and ran for his home. He burst through the door, told his daughter to hide, and then grabbed the closest loaded gun. He ran back outside, and began firing. The group was still trying to recover from the blast as they stood back, but immediately fell back to the ground as the bullets hit them. He let the members who were blown into the fire burn, not caring about whether they live or died. They could never hurt him or his family. The shooting stopped. The lawn was filled with bodies charred and mutilated to all extent. Some were 40

still alive but slowly died from the flames or bleeding to death. He walked to the street and saw the speaker, the leader, frantically running in circles, consumed by the fire. His screams went on for what seemed like hours, but were only minutes, and then silence fueled the flames as he watched them spread.

The Sleep God Dreams of On His Smoke Break We all need a little sleep, a little time to listen to the songs in our own Woodstock. Just let the guitar burn for a moment, it’ll be alive in the morning, much like we will be alive when we wake. There have been days where I never wanted to wake—where I never wanted to lift my eyelids and breathe for a moment. How long could I make that guitar burn? You can only shuffle on the cliff for so long until the edge grasps your hips and pulls you away from the music, and I have seen too many prayers to a god lost in the gold-lined pages below. How they moved with the rhythm of a gasmask revival, fumes for flames amongst a spasmodic body of people. Their voices were so hypnotic before their guitar vanished—added to the palms below. 42

How long til I am able to set the strings on fire again? My ears beg to hear its dissonance.

Holy How I’d love to drown in the whiskey of my sorrows like the rest of the damn world, but the truth is, I never was entitled to it. There are only so many Psalms which my feet can walk on. My soles can only feel so much amazing grace before it disappears and as I look to God. Really look to God, I realize such a person never existed. The sun rose again today, an anthem in the sky. My dreams sing their own songs — the clash never was beautiful. I came back down to earth for a bit, the whisper inside its own fury soothed the aches of my muscles. December’s ice had never felt so warm to me before. I don’t talk to God anymore. I laid 44

that book to rest an eternity ago. I watch the echoes vanish at the shore. Their moans could wake a soul from the cemetery if they so pleased. Their cries never leave the crisp edge of the tongue, how they only want to be remembered and we do remember them! Silently. It took me years to realize that I was a devil. But a devil needs love too, and I am loved. The holiness of myself never was, and though we all carry our troublesâ&#x20AC;ŚI, this devil, was never entitled to sorrow.

Pale bullet those clouds were like cigarette smoke they lingered and drifted holding tight their age never mumbling a word only bullets from the earth to waters where the dead walk how death never was alive in spring

If I fall into Temptation That’s My Religion I laid on my pen tonight. Its tip pierced my cheek and spoiled my tongue so that I may never drink— but my body has never experienced a drought so calm. She lay her fingers on me, her leaves pealing back my skin to see how the blue spread in my blood, and out of my nails. They were never able to grasp her branches, so heavy as they sprawled from her back. “The pears will never grow this season,” is all her eyes could say as the orange glowed against the temptation of the ink. Her branches 47

walked out of hell alive, and heaven was never meant for her hulky eyes. The daggers from her branches mended the roads in my skin, each mile a new stretch of life. The ink never settled. It only quivered with life as it experienced what Spring can never feel.

Anthem: An Awakening The sun slowly turned the Earth into a boiling pot, as he walked through the rocky aisles, past cars and people screaming “Barrato! Barrato! Cheap! Cheap!” Tables filled with tools, DVD’s, toys, and forgotten antiques were being bought, sold, and traded to anyone making the best deal. Wiping the sweat from his forehead, he came upon flashing lights coming from a police car, and a crowd of officers putting a slightly older male in handcuffs. A young boy ran up and started throwing weak punches at the arresting officers. One policeman swung around towards the child. The boy fell backwards, and as he began to cry, the audience told each other what they saw. “Did you see that? That man pushed that kid!” repeated the crowd. The man left the crowd and walked up to the child. The officer was about to speak, but he flashed a badge indicating who he was and then helped the boy up. And as he saw the child run back to the women assumed to be his mother, the man thought, All humanity is lost among these people. The boy was so small, so frail; his mind wandered back. He could taste the stench of decay, smell the scent of blood, and feel the light sprinkle of the past. The body laid right in front of him, as the crowd slowly dispersed, not seeing the carcass of a child stretched out in the rocky dirt drenched aisle. He let his mind take over and was the past seeped in. The rocky hallways of the market slowly turned into cement, clear summer skies turned into smog filled blindfolds, and the heat died down as a light rain fell onto the 49

child’s body. Shoppers became bystanders, journalists, and police figures. The sirens echoed in along with the sporadic chatter of the scene. The victim, who lay as a display, was as frail as the small boy who was pushed away by the policeman. The pale tanned corpse laid mangled, arms crossed above his head. His legs were spread apart, and face gazed at the brick walls surrounding him. “Excuse me, Sir? You’re going to have to move behind…” The man flashed his badge at the city policeman and spoke, “It’s alright. Detective Griever, I’m assigned to this case.” Griever stared at the body, the walked up and watched the coroners turn the boy over, revealing two bullet wounds in his chest area. Died slow.Died instantly. It doesn’t matter. It never matters. He’s dead, they’re dead, and that is all that matters now. It was all left in the past as a gurgled voice blurted out from a walkie talkie on the belt of a policeman. “Suspect has been sighted. Suspect is armed and dangerous and has taken a hostage. This is Officer Adams requesting back-up…” Griever followed all the officers to the hostage scene, weeding through the cattle-like crowds and loud music. He ran down a heavily trafficked aisle, pushing his way through the hordes of partially stopped people, finally creating space towards the end. A tall metal wall appeared in the distance. Against the wall was an average balding male, holding a gun to a child’s head. The same boy! The same child that was at the other scene. The detective thought to himself as he watched what lay in front of him. He would have reached for his gun, but there was no gun. He was not allowed to carry one, pending a psyche evaluation. 50

It had taken months to find the murderer of the dead boy, who, at the time, was given the name Johnny by the press. The parents were never found, and the only ones to identify the lonely body, were some students at the local elementary school. Three bullets to the chest, all for being a witness. The past was taking over again, forcing Griever to leave again. He remembered how he was out of breath trying to chase the suspect. They ran a few blocks in the city streets, stopping traffic, and crossing over into the city park. The suspect stood tall in front of a playground swing, children were running all round. He grabbed a girl trying to escape, who was no older than high school. He had a needle filled with a lethal dose of heroin to her throat. Griever’s gun was already raised and aimed. There was a clear shot, but other policeman appeared, protesting against it for fear of hurting the girl. Hostage negotiation team was in place, his partner called it in, and a barrier was set up. In the middle of this circus stood the detective, with his gun still raised, and the suspect with the needle still at the teenager’s throat and no one was backing down. Griever ignored all noise behind him, and there was still a clean space. He wasted no time as he fired one bullet from his gun. The bullet grazed the young girl’s face, leaving only a flesh wound, and then hitting the suspect’s eye. A desk job is all that is left of his career. Griever shook off the past and began to watch what was happening now. He saw the cornered suspect with the child and a gun drawn. Police and civilians were scattered around and various shops were blasting their music to gain 51

sales. It was already a mess, and it looked like it would never get cleaned up. He imagined the boy laying on the ground with a hint of lead in his body, and the suspect pulling the trigger on himself. That was his predicted outcome. The child showed no emotion. There were no tears, no smile or frown; his face was completely blank. The mother stood in front with the entire circle of uniformed policeman, crying and screaming. She pleaded with the man, but her speech was completely jumbled like an angry infant’s cry. A barrage of men with guns aimed their weapons at the one gunman and child. There were no openings without hurting the adolescent, and there was not a place to set a sniper. The scene was raw, and the outcome frightened almost everyone. The suspect was sweating and shaking all at once. He said nothing as he stared at the crowd in front of him. His vision began to blur and his head began to ache from the heat. All the noise around him became distorted as he raised his weapon towards the officers. He then fired three shots from his pistol, all hitting one policeman in his bullet proof vest. Griever watched as a young officer, gun already raised and aimed, fired a response to the gunman, the bullet missing the kid and the man altogether. The child wriggled loose and ran towards his hysteric mother, and before the man could fire a bullet towards the boy, the firing squad of officers unleashed an army of bullets into the suspect’s body. The corpse lay in the dirt, bloodied and nearly unrecognizable. All the officers gave each other praise for a “job well done.” There were no arrests that day, save for the simple incident. Griever looked at the world once more, 52

looked at the body, and as an officer was about to tell him to move, he walked off leaving his badge. All humanity is lost among the world.

Too Many Cigarettes to Burn Some days, I dream too much. And though sleep is good for the soul, the heart collects dust as it pulsates against the earth of your skin. Let your fingers touch it lightly as if God were creating Adam all over againâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;make it feel holy! Content is not enough, it wants to be alive, but the heart has burned one too many cigarettes to dream about the regret. There are days where it moans and bitches about the cold but our feet only feel the sizzling of the asphalt, knowing that it was no hotter than it was yesterday. There is so much dirt around it, growing fierce with the grass and staring at the skyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s belly, how it stretches for miles. I wrote about the scars one dayâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;they were always like snow, disappearing after the warm winters had set in. Those cigarettes keep coming back, and it just takes one more hit for the holiness to leave again. Sorrow was never its anthem, but neither was Amazing Grace, though when grace did come to comfort she left more than a burning dove at the door step. The heart has never earned the right to regret anything in its life, nor even the right to sorrow. And Grace, the heart only has a few visitation rights. 54

Grace came to visit, soothed it the best she could before she left again. She mixed words with songs, brought life back. And as she vanished into the soil, she left on the doorstep another cigarette to burn out.

The Branches are Heavy Your footsteps washed over the white splotched concrete; no sound leaving each caressing step. You entered the room, but you were never really there. No one is ever really here anymore. I heard the ocean tonight; the walls echoed it from their surface peeling back strips of beige flesh. They bled, or maybe they cried. If only I could tell, but they made no other noise save for the forceful oceanic waves bouncing off of each calloused and crackling blockade. Your arms gracefully pulled away from your body, fingers dangling with each swirling gesture. It was a dance, always a 56

dance with you. Each move more elaborate than the last, twirling round and becoming more ferocious in your movement. Turn and you became feared by your audience! I sit underneath brittle nicotine-stained ceilings, each floor above ready to plummet. Your body danced around me as I felt droplets of plastered water lash at my face, their nails leaving invisible scratches on my cheeks. I could hear the pale concerto of notes wrinkle out from scathed skin. It bled forcefully from your eyes, and blended with the pulsating aqua-filled air. Each splash was longer than the last, and always an octave higher. You never had to retrace yourself or that scale because you were always understood. Grace never knew you. You were grace. The branches are full tonight. They have always been full as they lift us up, shattering the decrepit ceilings. But it never stayed solid, everything melting into the water. With the room, you danced into its blood, still maintaining your form. And I just sat still as the floods toppled over me, stealing the chair from the floor and grasping my body. It was my noose, tugging me into that pebble sitting above us, and you were the final push into that firmly rooted temple without mirrors. How can you see God, without them? Our shoes are created from stories of vagabonds, thumbing through the worst of highways and the best of cities while staying sane in the most mediocre portions of small towns. You can read them anytime you want. Just have to pull the cotton balls from the whole of your heart and let the 57

air seep through. No, it is not louder than the bombshell of a gun, or the prayers of armless mothers wishing for their arms back. But they are stories necessary for our ears to grow into a deeper synopsis tuned to the key of an overstocked shelf. Still you lift out your hands. The rivers in your palms stretched out, as your knees grab the floor. You clasp those rivers together forcing them into one single stream of water. Cement beneath you begins to wash away as you sink into it. It was your escape, but you still needed to leave a piece of yourself behind. Not for remembrance, but to escape from it. Now, as the concrete hardens again, your hands they grow still clashed together. Your body is gone, but the hands remain locked into the ground. They point upward towards an orange-tinted sky. Prayers, they speak with sound. And like me, you never wanted to hear them.

he thumbed through cities, searching for an answer for the novel tattooed against his ring finger.