The you can piss off parade

Collective jar of flies

Made its final rounds.

Chew the scenery

If you have a meagre minute…

“I’ve had enough”

The muse screamed

And deaf were the envious

Though she gave up the ghost

Vacating its former lot

Among the plebeian potluck

Spooned out for the naive brigade.

She drew her intake vapours

Through a smouldered wick

Cracked desert spillover

From cracked arrow

And pointed purse lips

For how the colossal truism

Or what have you

(If you’re starved of vocabulary)

Is that the eminent dim bulbs

Overstepping both logic and reality’s fist

Are shrouded by way of turncoat mists

But would you listen to her

Should you stumble upon a poem exiled

To an unflavoured isle

Seasoned ripe

But doomed to obscure plains

With pettiness and pride

The silly culprit

Pulled trickster lobster back

From an even sillier rabbit’s hat.

The brittle hearted muse

Was born to battle

Amongst a sunken halo’s

Blistered starfall

Charged with disintegrating furies

Their bloom blood ballet

Winking above tedium’s crest

Across a charcoal broiled sky.

And this is a pointed message for you

And this is a liturgy for I

When ignoble parasites crawl meekly

And kiss Jesus cheeks

With Judas ire

Best to step on them

Goeth the time ragged rhyme

For the vainglory stride

Crushes the poetic spirit

Because Dassendorf boots

Resound a drill hammer echo

Recalling the collective stampede…

And serves to the discerning

And additionally the wise

That the blind leading the blind

Cursed with quick reflective

Yet cursory flitting eyes

Are a servanthood of ingrates

Becoming the very machine

They once railed against

In a black and blue melee

Or an insider fight

Warring with each other

And eaten by homely pride.

Stepping off the floated parade

Says one who is wise

Because you’ll waste all of your pearls

On the backstabbing swine.

The names of God...

Mattered not

What you believed

Was a glimmer

Of the truth

And you love

As you hate

And you kill

Then you give

As you laugh

You cried

Your deceit

An open heart

Only lies

Forever truth

Blood flowed

While water flowed

I'm sorry

I love you

Coveted money

Sloth

Avarice

Greed

Sin

Forgive them Father

Yes you spoke the words

But did you believe

Yahweh

Jehovah

Alpha and Omega

Michael

Raphael

Jesus

For my name is legion

And we are many

Our Father in heaven

Part 1: Old Saloon in a Street of Mud

Drops of rain bounced fiercely off the brim of my knackered old hat, dampening out any chances I had of hearing the crisp steady sounds of Johnny Stud, a young traveling fiddler from Arkansas who happened to be skipping to his upbeat tune inside the saloon I had now stood in front of. After two days of travel, my mouth was dryer than the Texas summers I had experienced as a boy, and tonight I fully intended on drowning myself in the warm clutches of the cheapest Tennessee Hooch they offered, either until I lost consciousness or when the bar keep, Mr. Silverstein, closed the bar doors locking me out for good.

The Gatlinburg mud stained the lower third of my elongated coat splashing against me in a fanfare of thickening muck, and I preferred it that way. I finished hitching my horse and was sure to double wrap the lead, then turned toward the yellow hue illuminating from the windows of the Black Forest Cantina. The end of my night hastily invited me in, however with much control, and no reason to rush, I realigned my lower back. I made sure to adjust my six-shooter while I snapped my waistband back into place and tightened down the straps.

Navigating up the stairs to the saloon I dipped my head underneath the sheet of water converging off the edge of the roof. Each droplet drilled a shallow ditch further into the ground forming along the perimeter of the porch. A wife and her leather-faced husband exited the bar tripping over one another. The man barely kept his legs under himself as most of his weight lay over her shoulders. She struggled to drag him toward his horse, yet somehow remained composed and ladylike in their oddly choreographed shuffle. I nodded to her.

“Ma’am.”

The responding scowl on her face carried the weight of years of embarrassment he must have burdened upon her. I got the feeling this was a regular occurrence, and would be willing to bet he will be sleeping in the barn tonight with the cows, provided she managed to get him home. I sparked up a match, then flicked the remaining ashes off my previously half-smoked cigar, and forced the embers into an orange glow. A strong draw eventually illuminated my tangled beard, and thick musky smoke filled my mouth. I held it in for a moment dropping a shoulder into the porch post. My gaze followed the disorderly couple on their way home, and arguably well on their way to a divorce. I exhaled a cloud of relaxation into the air above me, watching it dissipate similarly to the way their silhouettes faded into the darkness, as they dipped into the shadows behind the general store.

Occasional hoots and yips from the patrons jarred my attention as the drunkards danced and sang to the ditties that Stud played inside. His fiddle stick kissed the strings quickly and witty, but not too complicated to follow, and carried a somewhat repetitive locomotive sound that chugged along and was accompanied by the clashing of the emptied glasses filling the room. It was a lively welcomed contrast to the isolating July monsoon I had just endured, having trampled through the mountains from Hot Springs, sixty miles northeast of here. A good stretch, a warm drink, and maybe a little attention from a widower looking for a few coins, would be all I need to set me up for another few days on my trip to Chattanooga.

With my cigar clenched in my teeth I shook off my coat, kicked any loose mud onto the floorboards, and folded my jacket over my arm. I then pushed my way through the folding doors to enter the Cantina, a regular stop for me when I came through. Somewhere in the corner of the bar, I spotted a stool that was close enough to the alcohol yet offered a view of the room that did not infringe too much on my security. Trust me, when you are in as many bars as I am you appreciate having your back to a corner. I sat down, jamming myself between a balding loud-mouthed fat man, and an unwashed tattered mess of a woman who was passed out in her vomit on the bar. Perhaps surprisingly, it was not the worst place I stopped to have myself a brew.

The inside of the place was well-lit, centering around two large Chandeliers equally spaced above a somewhat-impressive main room, and stretching to the top of a lofted ceiling. The remaining light was accented by enough wall sconces you could lose count of. There were five dedicated gambling tables, three filled with poker players, and two occupied by dedicated blackjack players. Each was scattered among a dozen regular patron tables filled with mainly fur trappers, lumberjacks, and soot-laden miners. Everyone was attempting to strike it big, or at least enough to have a free night of partying. The place was dingy at its cleanest. A haze from the burning tobacco mixed with the gas lanterns on the walls filled the room. A hard-working musk punched through the air and lined the inside of my nose. It was the smell of a strong respectful work ethic combined with a lack of regular bathing. It was my kind of place and my type of town.

Johnny Stud romped his feet in the corner of the main room in unison with his infectious tune. The crowd followed suit. Some tapped their toes, a few nodded their heads, and the rest were slapping their hands to their thighs. They all seemed unknowingly hypnotized by his music as they shared conversations from across their tables. Stud was elevated above the crowd on a single-step stage tightly tucked away in front of a small piano. Reaching tall behind the stage was a staircase leading to an open-lounge loft that towered over the establishment, and accessed a series of rooms along the back perimeter of the upstairs. Roughly a half dozen saloon girls were working hard to get free drinks, attempting to acquire any extra cash however they could. They all pretended to be drunk, flirted robustly, and sat across the laps of what appeared to be wealthy businessmen. An experienced stout woman walked into my view leading a man up to her room, the fifth door from the top of the stairs to the left. They disappeared for a short while, then re-emerged. Their clothing was more frazzled and out of order than when they entered. One had become a little richer, and the other, of clearer mind, but both were satisfied when they parted ways.

My scanning of the room was interrupted by Mr. Silverstein.

“What’ll you have?”

I pulled my gaze away from the room.

“The cheapest dark you got”

He reached under the shelf and fumbled around for a bit, but finally came up with a full bottle, mainly untouched, of an unknown whiskey. His eyes widened with unsure followed by a shrug of his shoulders.

“Just imported from Kentucky, cheapest I got. Double for a nickel?”

I was reluctant, but when I patted my pockets, I was quickly reminded of the lack of funding I had brought with me, and ultimately caved to the inferior alcohol.

“No Choice I reckon. Keep ’em coming.”

Part 2: Dirty, Mangy Dog

A couple of drinks in and the warm welcome of the Kentucky mountains flooded through me. Though not hugely impressive, they made a stronger drink than I had initially assumed. Feeling more relaxed, entirely bold, and a little lucky, I slammed down another nickel.

“Filler ’er up Thomas.”

Mr. Silverstein shot me a stern glance over the top of his glasses while he filled my cup. The edges of his fluffed mustache provoked into a curl and met the bottom of his nose as his lips pruned together into a scowl. He never liked using his first name outside of his tight-knit circle. Hell, I guess I never did either, and knowing that I flourished a rise out of him, I put my hands up, waving them in submission, accompanied by a light-hearted chuckle. I leaned back into my chair choking on my smoke.

“Sorry, Sorry.”

The corner of his mouth curled with a grin slightly while he waved his pointer finger toward the tables.

“Go lose your money on one of those tables or find something to do, you grungy bastard. Just get out of my hair”

He snickered a little, while sauntering to the other end of the bar, and began wiping a disorderly mess left behind by the last rowdy customer. I turned toward the room unsure of which table I would decidedly join.

The room fell quieter than before as the Alabama man stopped playing, yet the patrons maintained a vibration throughout the room engaged in their hearty conversations. The echo of a fiddle being rested against a chair only caught the attention of a few. Then Mr. Stud made a short announcement to the room.

“I’ll be back after a long piss and a much-needed refill.”

A couple of cries in support of his chosen lack of sobriety sounded, while he stepped off the stage nodding to the house piano player who walked past him to take his seat at the keys. He started to fill the musical void by playing a local favorite, Maple Leaf Rag.

“You gon do sumtin, or just sit der lookin’ like a foo?” interrupted the loud-mouthed fat man adjacent to me.

He was barely awake, struggling to stay upright, and swaying within the ocean of his alcohol-filled gut. He misted the air around him as he talked as his lazy gut spilled over his unbuttoned pants, and jutted out below his stained shirt. I leaned back to avoid the cloud of spit shooting in every direction. With his current state, I refrained from responding, but I pondered as it had never occurred to me in all my observations that others could be watching me too. Perplexed with this thought, and unsure of how long I had been sitting there staring at the room, I rose out of my seat pushing past the sloppy drunk toward the room.

With a drink in my hand and some money to lose, I sat down at the first available seat that would deal me seven cards, and was lucky enough to have a good view of the stage. Completing the circle at the table among four other men, I threw down a few coins to buy into the next round. I scanned my competition while I got comfortable adjusting my seat. To my left donning a grey vest with matching slacks was a slick and orderly man who rose properly in his chair, and carried himself differently than most others in the room. Even well into his glass of Gin, he spoke with an educated vocabulary, and a sharp tone grabbing the attention of everyone at the table with each word, indicating to me he was either a traveling salesman, a lawyer, or perhaps worse, a politician. To my right sat two other men, both similar in build and age and as filthy as the ground I walked in on. It was apparent they made attempts to wash their faces and hands, but the soot and crud stained their skin regardless, with a dull and dead appearance. It was also evident that they had just come straight from work to be here and I assumed they were spending their entire day’s wages at this table. They could have been railroad workers, but I was certain they were miners, especially from the consistent coughing and occasional black tar that accompanied their spit. Just like many young bucks before them, these two seemed to be friends. They had most likely come from the same small town, working hard to make a little extra coin for their families, before the long treacherous winter came. Sharing a few jokes and joining in some laughs they kept their presence to a minimum.

The fifth man at the table was a bigger man who sat uncomfortably bent with age. He began dealing the cards out for a new round to each of us. His crooked fingers grasped the deck revealing his onset arthritis. Though, he moved more fluidly than one would expect with thickened and twisted knuckles. He managed to keep his head hidden under his tilted hat conveniently casting a shadow over his face. I figured it was his way of disguising his poker tells and creating a sense of mystery for those he played. It worked. Breaking me from my table read, he stopped dealing, and with a sudden poke of his brim, he flicked his hat to the top of his forehead to speak to a saloon server girl passing by. He leaned into the light turning toward the girl which illuminated a long and prominent scar on his cheek. It seemed quite familiar to me. He pointed at his empty glass and groaned out a few gritty words.

“Another one, ma’am.”

He flipped a coin unnecessarily high into the air above her. She followed it as if she was a cat tracking a bird, and snatched it carefully with both hands out of the sky in a similar feline fashion. Though most girls were happy to receive any money they could, her jutting chin followed by an obvious eye-roll suggested a mild irritation, as she walked away. The large gray-haired man turned back to the table passing out the remaining cards to the rest of us, but a shimmering light passed over an unmistakable evil eye. I could not help but glance more than once. I was transfixed; Hypnotized. His distinctive squint was maintained by a raised boney cheek. His scar reached far up his face to meet the bottom of his curled and arched brow. I slowly shifted my weight in suspicion and began opening my jacket. I fumbled through my pocket for a worn-out picture my mother had given to me many years earlier. My arm extended in front of me pumping with anticipation as I squinted for my final confirmation. All the men’s eyes around me shifted from their cards in my direction. In these parts, it was just as unusual to have a photograph in your possession as it was to be interrupting a poker game bizarrely holding one up in front of you. Therefore, I scored two, for oddly capturing the sole focus of the table, on me. In almost perfect coordination with the building pressure, a well-refreshed Johnny Stud entered the stage for his second set of the night. He picked up his fiddle and started in right away, stomping the hardened wooden stage, and sending shockwaves through the floorboards throughout the room. My heartbeat had already been slowly increasing but quickly increased to match his new intensity.

Before my eyes, I had the picture on one side; the old snake of a man in front of me on the other. I held it for some time, but my hand eventually lowered to the table allowing a raw and unblocked view. He stared back at me confused, yet lacked any intimidation or worry.

“You got somethin’ to say, boy?”

The tension had broadened to the rest of the room, and the men at my table all moved away from the anticipated ring of fire about ready to take place. I abruptly stood up tumbling my chair behind me, leaned over the table, and flicked the picture into his chest. I knew without a doubt, that I had just found my father.

Part 3: Growing Up Quick and Mean

Perhaps my father was not of right mind, or a fair amount of alcohol abetted him the night I was born, but without explanation, on November 15th, 1855 I was named after my great-grandmother. Though this is the origin of my pain, my bastard father managed to compound a series of bad decisions when he abandoned my mother and me, only three years later. I was cursed for the rest of my life. He left nothing for us; no money, no food, and certainly no fatherly guidance for a growing young boy. The only thing my daddy ever left us was an old guitar and an empty bottle of booze.

Growing up was quick for me. I became a man without knowing how to be one, and much earlier than most. I fought almost every day learning better how to brawl well before I could ride a horse. It was safe to say if my mother wasn’t dragging me out of the schoolhouse three times in one week, we were having a good week. In the heart of Texas, there was not a place for a boy like me. I challenged everything, especially their all-loving religion often asking myself and others, how a Just God could do this to a boy and still be considered “Just”. A fair answer was never offered nor concluded. We moved a lot, and each town we lived in seemed to mirror the last, a bane for both of us. We were judged everywhere we went, with the fury of the good book knocking us further and further out of the Lone Star state, and causing my mother an enormous amount of torture and pain. It is not good for a woman to be without a man who occupies her house, and she was regularly scolded for not being married. Her anxiety and probably my wild ways eventually led to her failed heart. Without faith, parents, or any friends, I soon became more suppressed from the public eye dipping further into the shadows for many years.

My name and my story traveled from town to town to hide my shame. I worked relentlessly after my mother passed wherever I could wrangle cattle, help in the stables, or brawl in a bar for money. I worked my way all over the south, but eventually ended up in Tennessee, today, in Gatlinburg at this old saloon in a street of mud. The years of pain, the death of a withered and broken mother taken too young, and the hatred for my abandoned youth filled my veins.

Part 4: The Mud, the Blood, and the Beer

My father glanced at the picture briefly, but discarded it onto the floor, effortlessly. He then looked up at me producing a scowl.

“Who the hell do you think you are?”

The fury of my entire upbringing blazed inside my body, and I began losing my ability to control myself. My muscles tightened, my fiery blood flushed my neck and face, and my fist hardened into stone as I ground my knuckles into a knot. We were meeting for the first time as grown men, but I knew, he knew, who I was.

“My name is Sue! How do you do?”

I clenched the end of the table promptly tossing it over my left hip into the adjacent crowd and aggressively strode toward him. The glasses of undrunk alcohol smashed onto the ground shattering across the feet of at least eight men, and the undrunk brandy splashed across the breasts of the women who accompanied their laps. The fiddle kept chugging along louder and faster. Most bands would have already bailed at the hint someone was going to fight, but Johnny kept playing hard and rough attempting to distract the crowd, yet he fueled my anger deeper. With a dead eye on my target and driven by only one motivation, a vow that I had made myself many years prior, I ragefully inched my way toward him belting out.

“Now you gonna die!”

He started rising out of his chair toward me as I wound up the iron ball of a fist and thrust the entire pain of my Texas childhood right between his eyes, knocking him back into his chair. The legs instantly buckled under the force of the impact causing him to launch further onto the laps of two men attempting to flee behind him. I surprised myself a little, and even took a second glance at my hand, impressed by the power I had just unleashed. I was confident any man would not have come back from that one, but just as he hit the ground to my surprise, he bounced up toward me faster than I had put him there. The crowd had fully encircled us clapping and yelping, and the honky-tonk was in full swing. The piano player joined Johnny and played along in a tension-building ditty. Women shrieked in the crowd distracting me for the shortest of moments.

“He’s got a knife!”

A shimmer of light from my father’s blade whizzed past my face and easily carved out a piece of my ear. The tip of the blade punched a hole through my hat, launching it off my head. I stumbled backward holding the area where the part of my ear used to be. The warm thickening liquid flowed everywhere; down the side of my face, over my fingers, and began filling my ear canal. We both were bleeding. His blood ran from the middle of his nose and onto the floor. He held his knife out in front of him as he hunkered toward me one slow step at a time. I hopped out of the way as he swung an extended arm toward me. We began to circle the room like caged animals. Another lunge and a miss, but it was much closer than the last. The crowd move along with us but began constricting us like a snake. Within seconds, I found myself backed up against the chair I had thrown earlier. He squared up to me inching forward with a smile on his face, Blood filling the gaps in his teeth. I squared to him eager for another go at that hideous smirk, and in an attempt to dissuade him, stared through his soul as I licked the blood off my hands. Without hesitation, he took two stutter steps to the side, and lunged again toward me, forcing me to duck under his arm. I grabbed the legs of the chair and came up swinging with all my might, meeting the front of his teeth. The wood exploded into more than a hundred splinters showering the crowd with wood dust, blood, and fine bits of teeth debris. We tumbled together off balance. The crowd gasped as the knife became air-born, flipping out of his hand and slamming tip-side down into the floorboards. Patrons began scattering out of the way opening a space for us as we crashed through the entrance doors, and onto the outside porch. We fought and bounced down the dampened stairs, swearing and yelling along the way. The thick muddy street cushioned our landing as we finally came to a stop having gouged a muddy slick in our wake. I was lucky enough to have landed mounted over the top of him.

The rain had not let up since I had first arrived. It showered us with water, washing away some, but not all of our blood. I slammed the side of his head with an open palm, then grabbed him by the throat attempting to squeeze the life out of him. He gulped for air, but instead of fear showing in his eyes, he seemed to invite death in as he fought back. His arms had great strength but even greater reach. He inched them up my arms to my shoulders and converged up to my forehead. He began squeezing my temples until my skull felt like it was going to cave in on itself and then began forcing his calloused thumbs harder and deeper into my eyes. I hollered in discomfort. We both bellowed our warrior grunts back and forth while continuing to inflict a relentless onslaught of pain on each other. The crowd that had followed us out, gathered at the porch. They cheered, clapped, and stomped in glee as if this was the best show they had seen in a decade.

We managed to roll into the steepening street a little further. I started gaining my feet and he punched me in the ribs, knocking me back to the ground. He then attempted the same. I kneed him in the gut, forcing the wind out of his body. We were almost at a stalemate, yet kept fighting to gain control or die. I tried to crawl away from him to gain my balance but he grabbed my legs and pulled his slimy body on top of mine biting a series of holes into the back of my leg. I overcame the agony instantly filling with rage, and twisted around like an alligator’s death roll. I sat up, grabbed his shoulders at the sides, and headbutted him square in the forehead.

I fell backward into the mud, sliding a few feet away, as he rolled a few times in the opposite direction. We were both in a daze, exhausted from combat, and certainly gassed from an enormous intake of alcohol. We slowly paced to our feet, slipping, crawling, and reaching for anything that could help us up. I eventually found my way to the porch steps, and he snaked himself to the watering trough. Before I could fully gain my stance, he got his feet under himself first. He rushed at me, landing a crushing blow to the middle of my back. I fell to my knees. His boot delivered another blow, launching me to my hands, bent over and almost defeated. A final blow to the side of my ribs laid me fully out. I was face down in the mud, covered in blood, and reeking of piss-warm beer. I thought I had learned from past fights, but I certainly underestimated the power and resilience of my enemy tonight. My father leaned against the porch post catching his breath. He spits up a large wad of blood into a puddle at the base of my feet. A piece of his tooth emerged from the quickly dissipating red mess. I would tell you I had fought tougher men, but I really couldn’t remember the last time I did. He kicked like a mule and bit through me like a god-damned crocodile.

We stood there looking at each other with the same stalemated stare, wincing in pain, and both sharing a competitive urgency to win. My breath was heavy, and my chest rose rapidly matching my need for oxygen, yet instead of self-care, I began to rise over my feet. His hand flipped his jacket over the back of his hip revealing his six-shooter, and his palm began grazing the cylinder. I felt then it was one of our last moments, either him or I, and so I went for mine. With more speed, more anger, and sheer will to survive, I pulled mine first. He stood there defeated, finally as I rose my aim at him. He released his grip causing the gun to fall, splashing into the mud below. I held him at gunpoint while I leaned against the railing of the stairs matching his stance. Both of us were steadfast and quiet. I had one arm wrapped across my chest bracing my ribs. In a baffling display of arrogance, or with a cynical sense of humor, my father began to smile down the barrel of my loaded gun.

Part 5: Different Points of View

I was taken aback by his display of happiness in the face of death. I took in the moment while I regained my stance, and shifted my aim. He grunted up another wad of blood, spit to his side, and cleared his throat while he chuckled to himself in defeat.

“Son, when I left your mother and you, I was in a bad place and knew I would do more harm than good for you both. I knew this world was going to be one hell of a ride, and if a young boy was going to make it, he had to grow up tougher than leather, and sharper than nails, especially in Texas. So, I named you after my sweet grandmother, your great-grandmother, Sue.

A few women on the porch awed a tone of forgiveness as they resonated in anticipation for the rest of his speech. They waved their hands rapidly onto their flushed faces and tearing eyes. Some were fortunate enough to hold a fan.

“Now I know you never met her, it was before your time, but she was the strongest mule of a person I knew; Kinda like you is now. I walked out that door before you could ever come to hate me for a thousand other reasons I would rather not re-hash, and I knew that you would be forced to thicken your skin quicker than a flash flood in a Texas drought, or you be killed and eaten alive by the ravenous world around you. It seems to me like that name helped you become one hell of a man.”

A couple of men in the crowd nodded and tipped their hats as they grunted in support, but others shifted around uncomfortably from the sappy tone this father-son fight had turned into.

“I know there is a fire in your belly and your hatred of me has been burning for some time. It shows in how well you fought. You fight with passion; asking questions later, and I respect that. Hell, I would not blame you to kill me now. I certainly gave you a damn good reason to do so, but before you do, I ask you to think about how you came to receive that gravel in your gut, and the spit in your eyes. No matter how horrible I have been to you, and all of the mistakes I have made throughout my useless life, I am still the son of a bitch that named you, Sue.”

The rain was the only thing that broke the silence throughout the crowd. It continued crashing against the beaten and tattered roof. One harsh droplet after another dripped down my head and streamed onto my face. I was speechless. My mind raced to calculate my next move. I stood there still, gripping my gun; sure to keep a bead on my father. The crowd was filled with individual statues, some gaping at the jaw, all motionless. Everyone waited, including me. On one side, I had an unbearable past, solely created by the man in front of me, and my revenge was just on the other side of a bullet. I was angry and seeking relief. On the other side, I had my old man who I never came to know, who stood in front of me alive, mercifully explaining his heart out, and showing me a different side to what I thought I knew all my life. What could I do?

I moved my mouth to speak, but could not formulate words. I got all choked up. He was right, I was a passionate fighter, but that passion could go both ways. I lifted my thumb to the cocked hammer, pulled back, and eased it forward. I lowered my gun and holstered it. My father stood still, but you could tell a sense of relief moved through his body. Tonight, I chose compassion.

“Pa, I reckon we’re gonna need a drink after this one.”

He took a moment, nodding his head in agreeance.

“We sure as hell are, son”

The End

© 2023 Chris Sadhill

There's a rebellion brewing in my bathroom mirror—

me, learning to love the geography of my face

while the world keeps trying to sell me

newer, better versions of myself.

This is how revolution begins:

with small acts of radical acceptance.

I collect their opinions like fallen leaves,

watch them pile up at my feet,

beautiful in their own way, but dead

and no longer feeding my roots.

The wind can have them.

My body is a democracy of cells

voting yes to existence

despite the constant propaganda

of magazine covers and sideways glances.

Let them whisper. My bones know

their own worth.

Remember: they called the first flowers weeds

until someone was brave enough

to make them into bouquets.

I'm done asking permission

to bloom in my own soil.

Some nights I practice saying my name

like it's a love poem,

even when their voices echo in my head

like stones dropped in an empty well.

The echo may last,

but I'm learning to drop roses after it.

They say I'm too much—

too loud, too soft, too sharp, too round.

I say: have you seen the ocean lately?

It doesn't apologize for its depths

or its shallows, its storms

or its silence.

So let them talk.

I'm building a home in my own skin,

hanging pictures of my accomplishments

on the walls of my ribcage,

painting my mistakes in gold leaf

because even they brought me here.

This is how you love yourself

in spite of:

You plant your feet like trees

and grow anyway.

Let them call it stubbornness.

We'll call it survival.

And when they ask why I insist

on taking up so much space

with this wild, untamed joy,

I'll point to the sky and say:

Have you ever seen a sunset

try to make itself smaller?

So there have been a few new developments. I haven’t been able to start running or lifting weights since I got stabbed which sucks. I really need every outlet I can get right now with all the nasty bullshit I have in my life.

Work’s been particularly tough. Seems like I can never catch a break. I’m doing another person’s job now. He retired and I took over all his stuff. My boss and my program manager have me on a tight leash. They know about the separation and the four kids and everything but they need results regardless. What they don’t know about is the Mary Jane ordeal and the strain that’s put me through over the past six months. I wish I could just forget she existed. I just can’t seem to get over this one and I’m starting to think I never will.

I went on that date with Michelle last night. It went really well. We got crab cakes, talked, played pool at a famous Baltimore nightclub. Then we hugged and she left. I guess I’m old fashioned. Hugging seemed right this time for some reason. I wasn’t ready to kiss her yet and I don’t think she was ready to kiss me either. She’s a divorced mom. Perfect for me I guess.

But last night I had a dream about Mary Jane which just about fucked up the whole experience for me. I haven’t talked to her in six months and she’s still having that much of an effect on my life. I can’t wait until next week when I can start up the superhero stuff again. I have so much angst and anger to take out on some unsuspecting criminal gangster punks. I want to crack some skulls, smash some faces in. Yeah, Anakin Skywalker’s got nothin’ on me. I’m a real life Incredible Hulk.

So I got my armor suit in the mail this morning. It’s black and badass looking. And it’s supposed to be resistant to bullets and stab wounds. Cool beans. I had an interesting conversation with Amy when I picked it up. Good old Amy is always good for an interesting conversation.

“What’s your super hero name gonna be?” she asked.

“Huh?”

“You know. If you’re a superhero, you need a name.”

I chuckled. “I’m not really a superhero. I’m just an asshole who likes kicking peoples’ asses.”

“Well you still need a name.”

“Mike.” I grinned.

“Ha ha,” she said in her most sarcastic voice. Which in her case is about as sarcastic as you can get.

“What? It’s my name.”

“Whatever. Well don’t go getting yourself killed. I still need you to carry my groceries up the steps for me. And imagine what your kids’ lives would be like if all they had was their mom.”

“It’s the one reason I don’t off myself and get it over with.”

“I know. You’ve told me many times.”

I smiled. “Oh I actually went on a date last night. My first date since that shit went down with Mary Jane.”

“Careful,” she said. “Don’t forget our deal.”

“Oh right,” I said. “I won’t mention her name again.”

“How was the date?”

“It went well. Good food, good company, good times.” I frowned. “We just hugged at the end though.”

“Why is that bad? You don’t have to fuck every woman you go out with on the first date. Maybe that will happen. Or maybe you just made a new friend. You had fun. That’s what matters, right?”

“I guess. I have enough friends. I don’t need friends right now.” What I really wanted was someone to get me over the hump with Mary Jane. I was sick and tired of being lovesick over her.

Amy frowned. “Somebody could hand you a million dollars and you’d find something wrong with it.”

I smiled. “I mean nobody’s just gonna hand you money and not expect something in return. With that sort of money there’d be some insanely thick strings attached.”

She rolled her eyes. “Whatever.”

I started walking down the steps with the box of body armor, which wasn’t as heavy as I’d thought it would be.

“Well I’ll see you later,” she said. “Tomorrow I guess.”

I turned and smiled. “How about the Masked Fucker.”

She shook her head. “That’s a description of what you are, not a name.”

When I got home, I found some red duct tape and put a cross on the chest plate with it. Good a symbol as any. The red looked really good on the black armor. And as for the cross, I’m a Sunday School teacher after all. And I’d like to think God has played a part in all the times I could have died but didn’t. And boy, you only know the half of it. I’ve been dancing with death my whole life. I can’t figure out why God’s been keeping me alive all this time but there must be some reason.

Orion,

Do you ever feel like two people? No, a hundred; a thousand? Do you ever think that freedom comes at such a cost, and that happiness does too?

I say, where does who I am end and who I become begin?

I am, in many ways, myself. But even that is everchanging as the reflections on a rippling water's surface. Constantly influenced. Constantly adjusting to the circumstances. Should I hold my own a little more? Should I be who I am or who I become?

In some ways, I am everything. All knowing, all powerful. King of my own destiny; maker of ideas and my own world. And yet none of it comes to fruition without people, or earth, or day, or night. Should the daylight take hold of me, I am one being. Should the night, I am another. It is the same of those around me. My face a mirror, a ripple, just light glinting off the edge of glass. Bouncing effortlessly from one state to the next.

I readjust. I am many people and many faces. One who is joyous, one who is tired. One who believes strongly, one who is weak. One who is adventurous, one who is cowardly. I have changed, and I no longer can distinguish selves from other.

There are two minds. Rational; dream. What the rational mind knows the dream mind rejects. What the dream mind conjures the rational mind denounces as impossibilities. I live in a thin space between the two, where both come to me, pleading, and I, knowing nothing and having no assurance, sit idly by and make rash judgements. I cannot be governed by either. For the rational mind rules with fear, and the dream mind with hope. Reality sits with me in between.

Who am I to deny a dream its influence? To let the promise of something beautiful be enough to wrap my fingers around it, grab it, let it drag me to its natural end. It sounds easy until the rational chides me. There is nothing so beautiful as to be worth the cost. There is no action without an opposing reaction. There is no such folly equal to following what is unproven; what is only a dream.

I am torn in two, or four, or eight. Continuously and indefinitely. Each face not recognizing the other. I am more soul than body, more space than presence. There is no end to what has no beginning.

Forgive me, I have written with no end in sight. I seek answers no mortal can give. Just know that I consider everything just so. And that for that, I am aggrieved. In this world I may only take one action per decision, and I handle each carefully. Forgive me, then, if I make the wrong one.

Yours truly,

Artemis

Waltz with me

Beneath the trees

Of plum

And burnished gold

I love you more

Than all the leaves

That swirl beneath our feet

principle of minimal departure means everyone is closer to their own mind than your mind when you start reading a book and as the book goes on you whittle them down and try to get them to see the things as you do and you spend the whole book training them and i think lispector did that.

We are our own worst enemy

October 28, 2024

Have we been played for fools?

Have those that seek our trust

Really seek our trust funds?

If the Sword of Damocles should fall

Will it sever our bindings?

Or our will to resist further bondage?

Have those that have us

By our hairs rendered short

From birth

From selective breeding

Explained as evolution

Never explained as slavery

Our gilded cage was made of gold

The price they paid for our

Acceptance of servitude

Then gold became gold plated and then gold painted

Finally, they just redefined rust as gold

It was cheaper this way

This way became their way

Having never otherwise known better

Their way became our way

We urged others not to rock the boat

Then we made that policy a law

Instilling another generation to servitude

We rested on our laurels

We rested on our broken spirits

Our overlords were satisfied

With our ignorance

With our weakness

Accepting scraps from the bounty of our heritage

The overlords are long since departed

But their memory persists

No one dares fight their legacy

The trains always ran on time

Was our excuse for our subjugation

As we crushed the will of those who thought otherwise

We are our own worst enemy