Tag Archives: symbolism

Peace

There in the swirling torrent,

at the eye of the rage and chaos,

in the core there is a stillness,

an unremembrance of the gnats and knives

carried in the wind.

Round and round and round,

flashing lights illuminate white-capped crests

as the very surface bends to that calm,

to that void wherein there is no whirl,

no time,

no thing.

Implosion of sound as forward becomes down becomes around again,

the distance from peace ages and lengthens

as the sea is wrapped and twisted further around the eye.

Above, the clouds lurch,

drunken spirals they vomit the cold, biting rain,

spew hail,

belch thunder.

There is no sun beyond the cloud,

no night sky reigned with star,

there is nothing but the maelstrom,

crashing and gnawing at that silent core,

drawing everything down to the silent end.


Digir An

I chose an eternity of this.  I chose an eternity of the velvety, silky darkness that now surrounds me. Sometimes there is a tiny flicker of light, that pinpoint in the blackness around me.  Vast eons of time are birthed and die like great mountains of being between their appearance, but sometimes there is somthing.  I can look at the light, and touch it.  It is like a small grain of light, a tight dot of cold energy frozen into a speck.  I always look for the light to shine on my hands, to highlight the ridges of the prints on my palm, and to give the sharp contrast of shadow to the folds.  But, I never see my hands.  I never see anything of myself.  I’m not sure if the light is frozen, or if I no longer have hands upon which it might shine.

 

Now I push those thoughts out of my head as soon as they start to form.  I used to dwell on the ideas, probe what I knew and try to determine Truth.  But that takes forever.  Literally forever.  Truth is as Truth is, and it fills the horizon of infinity.  If I try to comprehend it all, the light goes out.  There is a slight inhalation almost, as the light grows imperceptibly brighter, then a soft sigh, and the light is no more.

 

When I am waiting for the lights, I am convinced that this is all that I am.  I have become waiting – the impatient longing of desire personified.  I am a hopeless emotion that is self-aware, breathing and seething, and waiting for something.  For anything.  There, I am truly outside of time, as I chose.  Time is as a vast night sea, churning invisibly outside of the little boat of my consciousness.  I cannot  touch it, nor interact with it, but I know of it.  I know that it is, and that things are contained within it.  But I am separated from those things by a chasm that can I cannot cross at will.

 

In those rare occasions when eternity pauses, when a wave breaks with a special urgency, the gap is bridged.  Once again I know time.  Once again I can taste causality.  Those sharp angles of law, those brittle edges of the jewel of time press against what should be my hand, and the little light rests before me.  At first, I saw nothing in the brief span of life of the light.  I knew only the soft, cold glow before me – pure white and unblemished until it evaporated. But now, now I can see the light as it grows.  I am still on the far side of time, and it is as the strange echoes of a language that I no longer speak.   But the memory of it tugs at me.

 

I know the light is within time.  The thought of it makes me smile.  And here, in this place, that smile runs eternal and infinite.  When I again become aware of the light, i feel that I am myself radiant, and that all that is contained within that glowing speck is aware of my brightness, even a I watch its luster.  I cradle this morsel of existence, and pour into it all that I am become, and we are together as one for an age.  For me, this is eternal, my choice.  Inside that grain, time unfolds and grows and flutters.  Inside, one event brings about another from beginning to end.  But there is a beginning and an end.  Perhaps it is circular, on the inside.  It is a question that has no real meaning in the timeless dark.  I understand of their beginning, and their end, just as I understand that for me, there is no beginning, and no end.

 

I chose an eternity of this, an eternity of eternities – each completely defined by emotion.  Eternity of solitude, communion of the selfless-self, outside and apart completely, forever.  And, eternity within time – eternity swallowed by the soft glow of self-awareness of infinite, insignificant selves.  An eternity of inclusion of those selves within my own, a broken mirror reflection of time-bound consciousness, and timelessness unending.

 

There was never really a choice.


a slight departure

Somewhere between ten and two, I decided that a bowl of sliced cucumbers did not, in fact, make for a good dessert.  Even with Himalayan salt, and even after a fistful of double gins on the rocks,  the crunchy greens left me wanting, waiting for more.

Today was rough.  A rough finish to a stressful few days.  Sunday burned by as we tore through Milledgeville and Sparta on our way to Macon.  The ugly arid palms of the Carolinas rolled away to the inviting turf of Georgia, but the hours oozed by – an uncomfortably slow drain.  Night saw us sweltering from the rental to the hotel lobby, 89 degrees of moist discomfort.  I passed out quickly after a few words home on a busted cell phone – lousy VOIP with a shitty mobile.  Anyways, it’s always good to hear the voices of home.

Monday was a waste.  We pissed away the morning pretending not to be terrorists as we scoped out the base.  We picked a few pairs of garbage-made steel toes from Wally World, then headed over to ‘Bucks to review some slides and partake of overpriced hippy swill.  I was not nervous.  This wasn’t my bag.  I was there for the money, and they had already handed that over.  I was here just to manage expectations.  Dr. Gray was bandaging Physics, not promising solutions.  They already had their solutions.  I told them how it would work.  I’d spill the details that might sweeten the pot, a little.

We slid through security on a smile and a few coverups of anger.  We weren’t there to hear the civilians gossip about local fast food.  I didn’t want to know about Landia’s baby, nor about Dix’s skipping out without a text.  Give me the fucking badge, and let me on my way.’

We had been told parking would be a bitch.  “Good Luck and God Bless” was how they put it.  But, at 11 am, we rolled into an unmarked spot a few yards from the building.  We were too early.  Thirty minutes too early.  We waited in the air conditioned car for half an hour.  That damned Georgia sun was cooking the air to a boil.  I could smell the humidity through the car windows.

Fuck it.  It was time.  It was close enough to time.  We bolted from the car armed to the teeth with a laptop, a rotting quad-ruled notebook, and two minds full of unrivaled cunning.  Nothing could stand in our way now.  We weren’t looking to take prisoners – we were negotiating our victory.

The building was horrid Air Force brick.  Landscaping was dry – all stemmy bushes atop hard back, baked sand.  Toss in a few vines that grew too high on the building facade, and bingo – Robins Air Force base.  We sat on a pair of mildewed benches.  I didn’t have on a tie, and so I didn’t mind the sweating.  Well, not as much as with a tie anyways.

11:45.  We call.  No answer.  Leave a message.  Wait.  No answer.  Fuck it.  It’s hot.  Let’s go in.

We go in.  It’s all cube-farms and blue uniforms.  Toss in a few clean-cut civvies now and again.  No one seems to notice us.  No one wants to answer us.  Dr. Gray is insulted.  At this point, their words have become moot.  I have changed my tune, and am not at all interested in appeasement.  This venture has now become a tax on my time – I will be looking for someone to punish.

All in all, things went well.  I learned something.  Someone called me Dr. Gray, and asked a loaded question.  I missed the bait, swallowed the hook, and buried the questioner in science and logic.  Marley bailed me out.  He tossed the poor bastard a bone, nodded to me that an explanation would come later, and shut the fucker down.  That was all finished.

The drive back was too long.  Too many words, too much lecturing.  I don’t really care now, because I can smell the mischief of my girls even from 8 hours out.  I’ve got an itch that only five special women can scratch, and the miles are creeping by.  500.  450.  420.  Damn!

We’re about to crash for the night when Marley drops the bomb.  It’s over.  Our little empire is coming down around me now, and I’ve got Atlas’s burden impending in the morning.  Damn!  That’s a sharp blow on a Monday evening.  It is Monday, right?  Damn!

We hint at drinks.  God knows I need a gin.  I can’t do it.  Not tonight.  Not after that carpet yanking.  I think back to an airline bottle of Beefeater.  I should have packed that in my bag.  Who can afford ten bucks for a rail hit of gin?  Why would you?  Where’s a snifter of Hendricks when you need it?

I call home.  It’s good.  Everything is good.  I’m jut too far away, and pillars keep tumbling around me.  I need to get back to the world, but this jackass has set my mind afire.  Dr. Gray’s ego swells, even as the burdens pile up.  How many hours are in a week?  Is that a law, or am I allowed to bend it?

Fuck it.

Tuesday night.  I eat my chicken.  Raw.  Burned.  It’s fine.  Four ounces of gin, and my veins are aching for some sugar.  We got nothing, and I mean nothing.

So, its a bowl of sliced cucumbers.  Cucumbers with pink Himalayan salt.  But, it’s only cucumbers.  And, everyone knows, cucumbers don’t make for a very good dessert.

.

 

 

I have moved.   Find me at dtdeedge.com


an in between place

I wait in this in between place,

this place that is nowhere.

I wait alone with myself,

with our many selves,

hesitant to commit.

.

Through this mist,

this pervasive sadness that coats my bones,

a lilt of an accent,

bright memories of yesterday –

of dragonflies and of stairways,

we wonder which of us is real,

which of us is to be real.

.

Do I decide?

Is the decision mine

to collapse these infinite possibilities

into a single,

crystalline

reality?

Is the true self decided by fate

by God,

or a foolish boy’s choice?

.

I watch the alternatives crumple

into the hungering fog of impossibility.

.

I stand and wait,

postponing,

in this place of infinite loss.

I cannot reach out,

will not reach out,

for I have lost the desire for direction,

for life or for death.

.

So I stand within this self,

in the midst of this host of possible selves –

the dwindling remains of who we could have been,

would have been,

if not for…

.

There is no collapse,

no singular focus.

We are all illusion,

misperception,

visions to blind children.

.

I am truly thankful for these thoughts,

these inwardly directed thoughts from outside,

these shining lines of hope,

memories,

love.

.

But yet I wait here,

unsure,

and anything but alone.

 

4.24.14


cracked sky – revisit

I gaze upon the painted sky; it cracks.

I press against the hoar-rimed horizon,

so cold and biting. I strain to see through

but am allowed only a furtive glance;

a peek at another world. Mystery

and shadow – I see my dreams through the crack.

.

I flatten myself against the dome and

struggle to slip through the hole in time, o’er

gossamer borders spun ‘twixt life and dream

as the icy kiss of the bounding wall

warns of edges sharp from fractures honed,

cold claws that reach and rend my mortal flesh.

.

Through action wary, misplaced though it be

I fail to mark the cruel blade sliding

into my belly, piercing through my ribs,

until the point rests just within my heart.

my lifeblood’s warmth over my body spills,

a mask to the glass bite raw, elation.

.

Into my mind through mist of shock-numbed pain,

disbelief of thought, “What has just occurred?

what trick of dream-disguisèd sense is this?”

Though to the earth I drop in pain of wound

aknee across confines of worlds apart

I fall owned, part of each, by neither claimed.

.

My form just short of dreams cast down, I hear

the serenity songs through branch of tree

and peace of moon called forth, “come now to us”

Sweet voices of a thousand birds cry out,

Come fly with us, through mystery unveiled,

panoply vista of sight enchanted.”

.

I make to lift my breaking style, weak now

through loss of blood I retch in painful breath.

from just below my chest strikes out cruel blade

nearly hilts-deep into my belly thrust .

Upon the pommel resting light – a hand,

the trembling mother of this grievous pain.

.

The very form of grace and beauty warm,

How I long to stroke this exquisite hand

To touch and to be touched upon the face,

please let the caress come to end this pain.

Violent sobbing jarring my bladed chest,

through agony forceful, my tears are dried.

.


White Runners _ 1

Joah crested another hill, his feet crunching the fallen leaves – dried husks of burgundy and gold.  There was a scent to the air here, Joah felt more than smelled it – a thick patch of must.  He paused atop the hill, panting to allow his old lungs to catch their breath.

To his left, at the bottom of a small gully, Joah saw a massive slab of rock.  The boulder was moist, caked with fresh brown soil.  Up the slope to the rear of the gully was cut a fresh track of destruction from the wake of the stone’s tumultuous descent to the valley floor.  The source of the trail was lost to a curve in the hills.

Joah made his way carefully down the slope to the monolith.  He tested each step with his staff.  The tempestuous summer had left many loose stones uncovered from tremor or flood.  Joah had no intention of adding his name to the list of those who had fallen to their death from misplaced trust in old paths.

As he approached, Joah found that the stone was far larger than it had appeared.  The oblong behemoth was roughly three times Joah’s height, and half as thick.  During the fall, one end of the massive white stone had cracked off, revealing a deep blue-black slate beneath.  The severed portion had landed flat side up just beyond the stone itself.  A ray of sunlight decorated the rough surface, immaculate as the altar of any village chapel.  The fractured blacked surface was like a rough sea, frozen mid-storm.

As if  compelled by the rays of sun, Joah turned his gaze to trace the path of the stone’s descent.  He was blinded by the early morning sun as it leapt from behind low clouds, bath the stone in a blaze of fire.   He fell to his knees in rapture at the base of the stone.  Surely this was a sign from God, this was the place to be prepared.

For a long time Joah remained kneeling reverently at the altar, lost in prayers of thanksgiving.  Finally, as he started to rise, his ancient knees failed him.  Joah shot out his hand reflexively to steady his fall.  His palm slid across the edge of the altar.  The flesh was shorn nearly to the bone on the razor edge of the flint.  Joah clutched the wounded hand to his chest, watching as the blood seeped into the white shell of the altar.  The blood that spilled onto the black face of the altar was lost, its deep color a perfect match for the dark luster of the cloven stone.  This was not a frozen sea, but rather a churning roil of frozen blood.

Joah pressed a broad plantain leaf to his wound and bound it clumsily with a rage from his pack.  Swooning, he turned back to the source of the ravine.  The sun had been masked again with cloud, and no longer dazzled the eye.  Now he could see that the rim of the surrounding hill had fallen.  A shear crown as tall as a man wound around the rim of the gully.  At the head of the scree pile gaped a deep blackness – a dark portal beneath the hills.

As carefully as he could, Joah picked his way through the loose dirt and small stone up to the cave entrance.  The long walk from the village, the spiritual discovery, and the loss of blood had taken a toll.  A wave of nausea overtook him, just shy of the cavern’s mouth.  The world spun in his eyes, and Joah collapsed, his wounded hand reaching out to the darkness.


A walk in the Light

I stare at that light,

that light at the end of the tunnel,

and I wonder,

“Why are there no colors?”

Briefly.

Then I devour the light.

I watch it twist and dance –

it is not only at the end of the tunnel,

but it runs along the sides,

liquid diamonds.

I long to drink it.

.

Then,

I spit.

The uselessness of these words!

ow many times

do I say the exact thing,

over

and over?

Every time these same,

comfortless words.

What are they?

An expression of my desire?

I write them,

think them to the light,

hoping it will hear,

(for written language is nothing

to the light).

I beg again for that light,

and I touch it with my finger,

snapping the dream.

I fall again into the useless reality.

The light will not let me in,

not alone.

But no one else can see it,

and I quake with frustrated rage.

So close,

yet close

is meaningless.

But in that light,

reality and that narrow tunnel between

are less than a dream.

Oh!

There I know myself,

as I melt into my guide

and the light penetrates

my soul,

purging it of shadow,

fusing it to another soul,

equals.

But where is my guide,

and for how long must I search?

I grow weary of games,

of testing through words,

these same words.

No!

Step into the light with me,

hold my hand and we will explore that world.

We can explore the light.

I say ‘we’,

but who is that other?

Where can I find that soul

with courage?

One that wants to taste that light

with me?

Oh,

if only you could see that light

as I do!

If you had put your hand into it

and felt that jolt

of life

that stops the heart.

There I have seen the world melt

as time stood still.

There you can go beyond tasting the world,

drinking her colors.

Oh,

come with me –

it is so much easier than you think.

Let go

and come with me.

I cannot understand your fear,

and I hope that you do not see the light

through my words only,

for they are nothing.

I hope that you have been touched by the light.

But your fear speaks otherwise.

Let me take you to the light.

.

11.25.98


Judging

And long before the end of the council

he stood before them all,

lost in the eternal darkness

that swallowed the faces of his judges.

He stood alone,

nearly naked,

his skin covered by tattoo.

He stood to prove himself.

his skin tanned brown between the ink,

for he was of the Earth,

a child of his Eternal Mother,

“wild”

they called him,

and he did not move,

but remained still

and quiet,

judging his judges

with the fire behind his eyes.

.

1.14.99


Emptiness

“How do you spell emptiness?”

I asked and she held out her hand,

withdrew her heart,

and breathed my name.

“How do you draw alone

and afraid?”

I asked

and tore the colors from the sky.

I danced that night the dance of the trees,

the slow,

drawing of magic from the Earth

as I cried for the changes in my heart.

“No one dances together,”

she whispered,

again breathing my name,

again tasting my name in the wind.

“no one dances together,

and together is not…

separate,”

she sighed,

“separate.”

“Look at me!”

I cried;

dull words that came back to me on that wind,

that most terrible wind.

“look at me and see me,

for my insanity is not of the surface.”

I glanced at my skin,

“cover me.”

The dance for that day,

again the dance of the trees

was meaningless in her eyes,

and she knew nothing,

only I knew.

The stars loved me that night,

and the moon touched the world

with her cold light –

there were no more colors to steal from the sky.

Afraid and alone melted in my knowledge

and she diminished to a shadow.

Here at the edge we are all the same,

and she diminished.

“you know nothing,

and have no wish to learn.

You know only of my emptiness,”

as the cure was lost with the colors

as the night awoke and scattered the day.

She knew nothing of nothing,

and still I believed her,

her honeyed voice of milk,

sliding the blade into my world –

I would not be that again.

The past is a story, a legend.

Remember tomorrow,

for thoughts of yesterday make you die.

“Do not wilt,”

I told her,

for already I had dreamt of fire

and of paradise falling.

“Do not think of the legend,

of what was or who I hoped to be,”

I grew enraged with futility

as her mind closed on false thought.

Drown this story,

forget these colors -the moon and the stars,

for fantasy shines form within,

and it is to the inside we must flee.

The inside is safe,

warm-fuzzy safe.

I go to the inside when I think of your name.

I go to watch the tragedy melt.

I go for the rivers.

Indeed,

I fell into the river that night

as she sang the similarities

between my name

and emptiness.

I pulled her down into the river to stop the song

and to find those colors.

I danced in the water,

again the dance of the trees,

and forgot of empty

and of words –

I forgot the difference.

I am there now,

sinking in the river,

forgetting yesterday and her stories.

I sink into peace.

.

10.25.98


Leave

Look into my eyes so that I may tell myself what to think.

I can’t remember what the feeling is and how much it knows.

But you recall,

you never left,

and that is my haunting, my pain and price for mistake.

The well inside, the reservoir of emotion

has quickened to a boil

everything erupts.

From the ashes, the terrible agonizing remainder

rises the fiery phoenix god of anger,

my revenge on myself for rejection by my self.

I no longer ask for you to understand,

and I yearn for the false glory,

attentions from the careless,

signs upon my body read messages for the damned,

untold unsung unknown and together all together here forever.

Run out once more,

please leave my company

to invite the sweet vampire pain to embrace my mind

to fill your seat.

Depart from my eyes, strike down my pride, just shatter the illusion

the gift gone go lucky feeling happy play.

We all know, we can all see the little child crying,

crying for attention,

falling for attention,

dieing to be with you.

Desperation is the game,

loneliness the sin,

loneliness the reward.

Desperation is my sin, my bounty, my child.

.

8/1/96


Mick On Everything

Just a regular guy who is interested in everything

Wherever you go, there you are.

And here I am, Judith Clarke, writer.

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