the chair was facing no where… just waiting.

guitar strings meld with a breeze that cries for thunder under a drape of southern sun. does this wind carry the cries of Isaac’s touchdown, surely it has swept into the echoes of yesteryear remnants. a land, a people, torn asunder only to revisit a nightmare that walks boldly anytime of day. 

a jet echoes our sky, the ground seems to sway under its lowing pressure. acoustic rhythm patterns a hard laborer’s hammer. he builds a dream of some other person’s castle.    

Is it construction, or destruction; we could argue, but there is no changing the West’s ways. We continue to get drunk on the oil of expansion, usurping all oil until we fight for that last dregs that shall shimmer in our enemies pupil, teasing us to try to capture its last weapon – mass destruction, we peril.

as the man lays dying, McCarthy describes the long look the weather-beaten horse gives from the shanty door. death torturing  the flea-bitten animal seems more mournful than the dark fate of one with four limbs – two to walk, two to destroy their kin with knife or gun. there will be blood – Cormac makes one cheer for the horse that races down the dusty arroyo, breaking free from the holds of its master’s whip and weathered boot. damn the man whose sole purpose is to hunt the scalps of humans. each animal that crawls from a wild moonlight breathes life, reveals a bit of humanity – isn’t it strange, that the animal is less beast than the animal not beast.

who in darkness shall spill blood out of an empty hunger? who under the shadows spills blood out of just emptiness? 

I took a random day off today…several hours of vacay are the one perk of living a boring, stable life in which one has held the same job for a decade. These thoughts were composed under a shade tree, a shady area that is a stones throw from where I reside. Pandora currently streams classical guitar (Christopher Parkening) while trucks next door honk with their filled dirt loads, signaling the next truck to pull into place. A constant chatter of hammers and nail guns compets with the random bird that doesn’t seek cover from the afternoon heat.

Heat rolls over the pup and me; flies dip for a taste of us; I taste the cooling coffee from an old glass jar. Cormac McCarthy  entertains with a brutal world of a wild west we’ve never experienced. He paints it heavily in blood and brilliance; not an ounce of compassion is spared except for an animal about to die. The 1800s were a beastly time – savagery on the plains and in the canyons, blood spilled was equal opportunity – be it white, black, red or brown,  down South, only the ghosts slept peacefully.

the chair was facing no where… just waiting.

Z and I went exploring – this is what we found after following a road that currently leads to no where. We rounded the bend to find this chair. What you cannot see is the nice neighborhood in rural suburbia that is on the other side. However, it seems more fantastical, romantic, not to reveal this bit of information. Instead, keep imagining a scrub of land where someone has decided to occupy time to just stare into where? Does he or she stare at the moon while whispering to the stars a lone desire. Perhaps the last  person on earth, too far from anywhere; too far to desire the last drop of oil or blood. ~

dreaming under the influence of McCarthy –

we were on a mountain. it felt like Colorado, it could have been anywhere, though, as my brother said at fourteen: if you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all. (he referred to mountains, but oft said such things about anything that bored his senses) i roamed a landscape  filled with washes of greens and greys, not the ochres and rusts of the Southwest. the South would make more sense since reading Cormac McCarthy’s Blood Meridian. memories, however, steep longer in our mind, igniting the senses with tasted reality, than a black font across the page that then triggers a formation of lines and colors. we become audience, passively whispering our thoughts into a characters mind who shall never listen to our wisdom. we wish they would listen for we’ve tasted their death, it has been rebottled and reprinted with a label bound for the bottom shelf awaiting closure.

there was a certain amount of closure in that dream. some how we said good-bye. scratching the surface after twenty-four hours of eyes open, the mind’s eye doesn’t quite peer that deep anymore. a cliff overlook where we dined as cars zoomed past us. where did we expect to go after that, yet there was a pause in traffic when we stepped down to meet the ground from the mountain. it was too late, nothing remained sane after that. we moved on; the light was too bright from the East and my curtains are the colour of champaign…good for drinking up, but not for sleeping in.

remembering then forgetting. my father told me the other day that i had seen the Smokeys when we drove to Florida. i said, i don’t remember, i was only six. he said, no you were even younger, five.

why do i recall a glimpse of Disney’s haunted mansion, and overhearing that girl in line warning to watch for men that snatch young girls off coaster cars? why does the image of agonizing over cream fish net tubes of preselected seashells conjure a smell of dank water and a midwestern grocery trying to sell fresh seafood? where did those mountains go? i know, perhaps that was when all 45 pounds of little girl body wedged into backseat vinyl trying to sleep while fighting brother’s bony feet every inch of that cramped car. thank god the mind does forget the tortures of being trapped under the mercy of waiting and watching, hoping that someday the answer will be, yes, we are there.


how do you wish to die?

it was certainly a statement, clipped. it didn’t ooze patience. no, it was thick as blood off the lips of one whose questioning was calculating a motive. one could reason mortality with such questioning. does that mean it is up to me how i shall meet the final exit.

his hands flexed, fingers thick rolls of flesh with nail beds that showed sins of godlessness. how to reason with someone who views  your last breath more as sport than game. could i outthink him to make it an ending of less pain. could this vessel be broken without being broken into. there was a whispering, somewhere. 

will you really honor which ever way i say?

glazed eyes gleamed briefly. a glimpse into the machine. power ignites, there was no doubt his wheels were turning, waiting for a version of my dream. lie, it was the only way. 

i cannot say.

i cannot give you an offering at such stakes. 

it is not a fate i’ve ever dreamed.

the words came out in strings carefully stated without begging, without a sign of anything. his body remained in state. hand rests. the mouth drew a thin white line. heavy brown brows furrowed until a dent formed between his eyes. sweat begins to form.

it was an odd sensation, this feeling of being underwater not breathing while air kept sending strands of hair sideways. i prayed for wings. i prayed for fins. i prayed though i’d forgotten to whom to pray ~


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