While on her walk

She found on the ground

A beautiful feather

From a red-tailed hawk

She immediately accepted

This favorable sign

Messages from the spirit realm

Are often unexpected

She believed this feather

Was confirmation

That we are all

Mystically interconnected

Nature

Humans

Earth

Spirit

At the very same moment

The girl bent down

To accept this feather gift

A hawk

Dove down

And plucked

A fear-frozen chipmunk

Off a nearby rock wall

While its clenched meal

Twisted and squeaked

The hawk swiftly flew off

And out of sight

The feather dropped

Out of the girl's hand

As she decided

This was no other-worldly revelation

No message here

Other than simply:

‘It is not a good day to be a chipmunk’

The man walks up, and stands by a lake...

Man standing by a lake looks down...

The lake is clear...

The lake is wide...

It stretches like a flat cool blade

Out into distant horizon line...

Ir seems so calm...A bird flies out...

There's stones beneath it's still, wide face...

Red, green, and brown...kelp floats about...

Uh oh...Here we go!...

The lake is doin a jig, hey, shit...

A swirling eddy has opened up and the man's becoming

Fascinated...

"What's this he says?..."

A funnel spout of water ripples; wraps around

Like arm in arm...

The sun reflects in spots, and shimmies...

His mind's eye dances down the drain...

There's writhing fish, and algae, coral spinning

Within the soup that's churning mad...

The man is in vortex of thought...

Watching colleague stretch her back...

She asks him why he asks such things...

He tell her cuz he thinks too much...

He's on his phone; chats with his boss...

His boss tells him he'll pay his miles...

A rainbow fish brawls with the tide...

Man feels an ache within left eye...

His boss tells him record your miles...

Fat sun now dips like tongue of dog...

The man is plunged down in the eddy...

Maybe he'll come out other side?...

He fights the onslaught of swirling pools

That soak his jacket, and fill his shoes...

While death is nearing, a voice approaches

Out of the darkness...so warm and rich...

It sounds quite husky, with cave acoustics...

It asks him with a funny swagger

To let his last breath free and come...

Share in the new life at the bottom...

An epiphany he'd never guessed...

The sunset cascades out from water;

Changing the sky from blue to gold...

The boss's voice from tunnel echos...

"I want to pay you...Just chart your miles..."

The lake is clear...The man is gone...

Two birds fly in and skim the waves...

7/9/24

Bunny Villaire

There is an exquisite palatial colonnade rising from a granite stylobate--thus, a foundation and its marbled columns. A lofty horizontal mezzanine of contiguous lintel perches well above even the greatest men's heights--an entablature of architrave, frieze, and ouroboric cornice--that comes full circle for the inquisitive, orbiting eyes that follow it.

This ancient structure has withstood the acidic tincture of time. It sits empty, its very structure remaining as its only raison d'être, now a self-referential monument to itself. But it haunts careful observers as a monument to hidden things.

There is a serene beauty, yet this is a deceit that belies terrible truths. The laminar ambiance is riddled with an insidious turbulence: there is something foul unfolding that is unholy, riding the inhuman convections of an ill wind.

The veins in the columns' marble come together in the mind's eye, depicting what went on here yestergo. As an inner vision dilates, accommodating to a confluence of illusory cracks, lines, and marbleization, this erstwhile monument of grandness becomes an entablature of horror.

The first column's imperfections present a tableau of anguish on the irregular faces that begin to stand out.

The second column comes into focus with a history of the ruthless quashing of insurrections.

The third column is rife with the machinations of dismemberment as a punitive education for those who learned quickly.

And so it goes, like the Stations of the Cross, each tall monolithic column continuing the parade of tragedy, pathos, and misery--all man-made--like was this place of hidden history. It stands as a monument to Man's inhumanity.

The final column, standing before the first from which this tour of psyche-blistering began, signifies how an end is merely a beginning of repeated anthropomorphic cruelties. There is as much distinction between this last and the first as there is between any two randomized columns and their nightmares.

This final column depicts the erection of this edifice and those who struggled, suffered, and died building it--for whom?

It was built for me!

And it was built for those who know why it must be torn down. The reasons are as plain as the lifelines on the palms of one's dirty, damned-spotted hands. And fear not, "those ignorant of history doomed to repeat it," for it does not matter.

As the old man sits on the porch, the rhythmic rocking of his chair produces a creaking noise that clashes with the harmonious notes coming from the cardinals in the adjacent trees. He’s unaware his movements make a disruptive noise that offsets the birds animated warble. He is too preoccupied to take in the free avian concert.

His thoughts have wandered back to how the days passed so quickly without notice or urgency. He remembers carefree summers of his youth, running barefoot through the pine forest, the branches jutting out like arms trying to slow him down. He recalls his mother’s baked pies sitting on the windowsill to cool, the enticing aromas permeating the kitchen. He relives the thrill of catching crayfish in the book next to the decrepit barn as the invigorating water swirls about, anchoring his feet to the streambed. He reminisces of drifting off to sleep under a canopy of stars as his older brother stirs the smoldering embers of a waning campfire.

He retraces his path to here by inventorying both the jubilant as well as heartbreaking moments. Like the intermittent cool breeze from the oscillating fan on the dusty floor, the memories fluctuate between turbulent and calm, refreshing and stifling. Throughout it all, he endured the dark times, the low points, knowing that sadness is offset by the comforting times which follows life’s natural ebb and flow.

There was optimism for a bright future. Then the war and its disruptive, lasting impact. The various jobs and associated travels he undertook. His wedding day, the tragic death of his middle son, the birth of his grandchildren and the passing of his wife seem evenly distributed over time. Maturity has purged the resentment and self-pity associated with the setbacks punctuating his 77 years. He tempered his attitude about life’s harshness knowing there were never any guarantees. Feeling cheated or bitter at this point wastes precious energy and time, both of which are finite commodities not to be squandered. Tears will dry up while smiles can be retrieved. He appreciates the good and weathers the bad because you can’t have one without the other. He understands that life balances itself out.

Yet sitting there, as the condensation from the glass of lemonade beads up and rolls around his swollen fingers, the old man can’t help but be envious of the possibilities available to his granddaughter. He longs for the intellectual stimulus of college; something he never finished, much to the dismay of his father. He yearns to socialize with his peers, an opportunity lost since most of his friends are physically or geographically gone. He desires the wonderment of learning something new and overcoming inexperience. He wants to be mentored. These are unattainable now, stolen by the passing years. “Youthful innocence“ is not compatible with anyone his age.

She’s the future. He’s the past.

His granddaughter sighs. Sitting quietly on the porch steps, listening to the birds, she knows it’s time. Summer is ending, which means sixth grade is only one week away. She dreads going back home to start a new school year in a new building with different teachers and different subjects. She wishes she could trade places with her grandfather. In her eyes, he doesn’t have a care in the world. No worries. The idea of waiting months before she has a summer free to do nothing again is daunting. She hopes time passes quickly.

Exquisite you say?

That I am, only eat one time a day. I am constantly concerned with how I look, I'm straight out of a fairytale book. My hair done, all the time. I've trained my face to smile. No matter what I look content, happy, sad, good.

I am exquisite...but is that good?

I am exquisite...but at what cost?

I am exquisite...But I am dying.

I am starving.

I am sick.

I am exquisite but my life will be short.

I am exquisite but I am unhappy.

I cannot be anything but exquisite...I am addicted to the reactions I receive.

I am Exquisite.

But I wish I wasn't.

I see her scars, the way

they trespass down her arms

people wonder

what makes someone

do that to themselves

people who don't

know what it looks like

to be told by someone you love

very much, that you are not enough

"Behind every good thing that existed, there was something tragic."

For me the tragedy was my mom, or maybe the after effects of her murder, or maybe it was the nuclear holocaust or maybe it was our second chance. The chance we had to put our talents to use. It wasn't much of a choice. We were chipped and collared. "We're looking for those who can enjoy the kill." That was what they had said. Why they wanted kids, I never knew. Teach them young, I guess. It was my fault we were there. It was my fault I was staring at the ceiling, cords pouring from my wrist. I was mechanical. I was just a machine, a machine of death. The worst part was that I had dragged my brother in too. Those jokes we made about the electric chair don't seem so bad anymore. I was so proud of myself for staying positive, though it could have just been the high of the kill. "The kill" The two words that changed my life. The two words that sentenced me to The Death of the Soul. I needed to escape, I wanted to escape. "But it's your fault." a voice argued, "It's your fault you're here. You made the kill. You chose not to run." I clenched my first around the charging cord. I shouldn't be here. One mistake didn't determine my life. But it did, didn't it? If I could do it over again, I would do the exact same thing. And so it repeats, the endless metronome of constant grief and regret and guilt. I caused the tragedy. The tragedy that twisted my heart into a beautiful form of pain. Maybe one day it can become something good. I remember being good, it was horrible. I couldn't do anything when my friends were getting killed. I couldn't save myself or anyone else. I gave only power I had. I chose evil, and evil chose me. I sat up and pulled the cord from my wrist. The other girls lay around me, in sleep. I slowly tiptoed across the room, pulling out my charger once I got to the door. Then it hit me. I screamed. The pain overwhelmed me. I gasped. It can't possibly get worse, I thought, and then it did. My back arched and my feet hit the wall. I couldn't tell if I was screaming; all that existed was pain. The all consuming horror of it wrenched at my chest, trying to come undone. "What are we going to do?!" the voices shouted in my head.

"We can't do anything!" replied another, "We just have to wait it out."

The door opened and closed. A mop of sandy, blond hair touched my cheek. I slowly stopped thrashing. Something was moving inside my wrist then the pain stopped completely. All feeling stopped. I sat up and stared into my brother's face. "Thank you." I gasped. And then there was darkness. Welcome to my life.