"The Struggle"

Shaking.
Body. Mind. And soul.
There's an earthquake in me, rumbling waters, mountains on the roll.

Music.
Strings. And voices. The harmony of wondrous glory never told.
Through chaotic madness anchored peace a ray of warmth to pierce the hardened cold.

Strength.
A memory. One thought. A feeling warm with loving care.
I oppress the cage, and raging doubt is waiting on the edge of glory in despair.

Belief.
A gift. My hardened will. Given to truth in a dire state of lies.
Looking through the telescope...only to prove the starry skies.

Doubt.
Constricted fear. Emptiness. The eternal battle with incompetent rejection.
Ever reaching for the magnifying glass...just one more close inspection.

Darkness.
Relief. Acceptance. Like a blanket, shield's me from the rest.
Here in quiet silent solitude, in peace, with care, thus I am given to the test.

God.
Warmth. Foregoing. An urge to be, my urge to know.
The will of daily diligence etched'pon the stone of life so long ago.

Man.
The creature. Being. The culminated spirit of eternal infinite existence.
Forever balancing the struggle. Forever willing. And through it all resistant.

"Bridges Made"

Death in the end.

A void and dark place where only silence dwells.

And there is peace. And sullen melancholy still remembrance? Well...maybe.

And what would I remember... 

A strange feeling, keeps me up at night.

Wondering. Imagining. Reaching out in stillness toward the light? Maybe.

A room, four walls, a door. 

Some books, and journals, and my scattered thoughts upon the wall.

And the written pages, words, would I remember...all? Maybe.

And the faces, lovers, family, my friends.

Her body. His distress. Her gentle touch. Her bitter pain. His angry rage.

And all the love I longed and yearned for...the hate that put me in a cage? Maybe.

Misleading thoughts and biting hatred.

No...two world's apart and still I know there can be bridges made. 

The river separates and binds, currents, forces...are they mightier than the blade? Maybe.

Distractions splashed in through my life. 

A glowing screen. A pretty face. A sweet sensation, velvet chocolate. Spice.

The gruesome feeling of eviction from the self...put there to entice? Maybe.

The screaming devil always asking for one more.
So I give two, my will forthcoming, and God is smiling'pon a heavenly cloud.
And the ministering angels flocking in and out...can they dispel my tortuous doubt? Maybe 


Upon the horizon, hope is risen.
A gleaming ray of truth that lights the darkened path of lies.
Still the eagle circles high above the moutain peak, the guardian of flight.
Still the crow, perched'pon the city rooftops, keeps transgression within sight.
Still I search for my redemption.
Still I seek to thwart temptation.
In my fallen state I am humbled before God and all his might.
In this fallen state I struggle, mere distinction, wrong from right.
And in this fallen state I plea in earnest...the world is fallen with me.
In this fallen state I'm my most human...distinction's harmony.

"The Silence"

A long and straight and narrow road.
I'm driving off a long long way.
I don't know when I started down this path.
The beginning, lost amidst tumultuous thoughts,
There's only one direction now - the road - the end - my speeding car.

Remembrance - memories.
They are mostly pictures now.
The pictures left to me - pictures on the road.
There is no sky - the oppressive canopy of blue still hangs above me.
I can sense it - it is ever slipping from my grasp.
Alas! I am getting closer.

Velocity. More speed.
I let it go, the maximum is all I want, I let it go.
I'm always longing for control.
I struggle still - I skid - and slide - the wheels - such screeching.
The swerve is nauseating.
Alas! I maintain all control.

The day, it passes, night is here.
The car still whirling through the blackness.
The lights bring little hope.
In such overwhelming darkness, their glow is solemn and lonely.
Yet still they guide me onward. Forth.
Forth into the dawn.

The morning light brings comfort.
With it comes the promise of new life.
Each day anew the sun arises.
Each day anew the light shines'pon the earth.
I stop my car. How long have I been driving?
Around me. Sandy hills roll on as far as the eye can see.
The road. Long and straight and narrow.
How long have I been driving?
"Hello!"
The silence.
The silence on the wind is carried past me.
I shudder inward as I scream out.
"Hello!"
The silence whistles past.

I get into my car again.

A long and straight and narrow road.
I'm driving off a long long way. 

I don't know when I started down this path.

The beginning, lost amidst tumultuous thoughts, 

There's only one direction now - the road - the end - my speeding car.

"Ikaros Remembered"

It was morning. Early morning. The sun was still just an idea in the early twilight of the dawn. The city was quiet, mostly still asleep. All so periodic. And it was not yet eight o'clock. But he was ruled by intuition, not by periodicity. And in the early dawning stages, he felt compelled, drawn into his waking state in anticipation of the rising sun. He made his coffee, black and strong. Three spoonfuls of sugar. Stirred. Clockwise. Anti-clockwise. And then he slammed the cup down on the kitchen counter seven times consecutively. This was so the sediments would settle quicker.

He sat down on the chair out on the balcony. It was chilly. The cup held tightly in both hands close up to his face for warmth. One sip. Aaah... Ecstasy. Another. Wuuo... Rejuvenation. And a third. Ppkk... He was wide awake. He closed his eyes and felt the cool air against his face. Slowly creeping beneath the sweater up his waist and lower back. Refreshing. Stimulating his still sleepy nerves. And when he opened his eyes, there was a glimmer on the horizon. Reddish purple, with an orangey golden hue. The sun. Even his thought was a whisper, delicate, momentary, and considerate of his silent circumstance. And silently, considerately, the sun rose upon the earth that sprawled out before him. The darkened shadows of the city night became gleaming ivory towers of splendor in the illumining light poured down in infinite abundance. He felt the power. He could almost touch it. It reached for him. And he reached out. Yes. Electric. Current. Like tidal forces moving through him. It was exhilarating. Almost unbearable. Tickling sensations in every muscle of his being. And he began to vibrate. Higher. And higher. Like the escalation of a pitch with a crescendo added on for force. He the conductor. He the symphony. Co-author with the Great Unknowable Composer.

He was so close now. The distance between them seemed a stepping stone. A minor leap. And he looked down from that great height upon the Throne. Down to earth. Up toward the light. Back down to earth again. Your Will be done. And he stepped down, plunging himself toward the Mother who had raised him, recalling all too well the fate of Ikaros. He smiled to himself in all humility, arms stretched wide, given to faith. I am humble Father. My fate is in Your hands.  

"Otto"

"Minus fifty-five."

"Minus fifty-five! You sure?"

"Minus fifty-five."

"Certain?"

"Positive." He looked at the picture on the wall. He was certain. It was at least fifty-five years ago. He recognized the pants. The long green, baggy, guerilla pants. He wore those in early adulthood. A blend of ordered military finesse and chaotic mayhem. The Jungle General. It seemed like that boy was a dream. Dream... a kind and generous word. A nightmare. A nightmare he didn't want to remember. But the picture on the wall screamed out for attention. Recognition. It wanted that moment. That special moment. Inside. Deep inside and hidden from all the rest. So secretive. Yes. Confused. And it couldn't let him forget. It would not let him forget. He must remember.

"You look so different." He was being modest. The boy in the picture was not the old man standing there beside him, in the room, trying desperately to remember, shaky, slow, fading. And he could never be that boy.

"I don't recognize him," he said, quiet, still, almost afraid of the truth he was confronting. He didn't recognize him. He couldn't. Sure. He knew the face. The figure. The body. But he couldn't recognize the  boy looking out from behind those eyes. The boy smiling from behind the parted lips and white, almost polished teeth. He stepped closer toward the picture. He could see his present reflection in the glass of the frame. No. Something was different. The old and weathered man looking in had grown apart from the young and mild boy looking out. But their faces met. Their eyes locked. The young boy challenged him. To remember. To remember every day. And to continue on remembering. And never to forget. He challenged him fiercely. But the old man in the reflection was afraid. He turned away.

"I know it was a long time ago, Otto..."

"It was another life." It was another life, he thought. He had to be certain. But he wasn't. He had to remember. But he couldn't. He did not want to. So much pain. So much suffering. He did not want to remember it all.

"It was your life, Otto. Your life. And no one else's. You know this. I know you do."

"You don't know anything," he snapped back. "Especially when you presume so much. So much about me."

"Otto... please... stop."

"You know nothing." He stepped toward the picture. That boy. That fucking boy! Who was he? Where did he go? Why couldn't he remember? He looked deep into the eyes. Those eyes. Please, he thought, please help me remember. And the boy kept smiling fiercely. His resolve relentless. His youth immortalized through a play of light and shadow with the perfect chemical balance to contrast the image. A threat to the very essence of change that the old weathered man represented standing there, even now, in that very moment, his thoughts decaying, failing, his memory faulty and degrading. His confidence withered before a ghostly image of himself he could not recognize. He was alone before his judge. Before himself. Alone and naked... his clothes, mere garments. They hid nothing.

"Otto..."

"What do you know now?"

"I know that you are afraid. I can see it in your eyes. They are lost. And I can smell it all around you. The sweat. The humidity. Thick and dank. Like your fear."

He clenched his palms. Wet and sticky. And his brow. Glistening with sweat. The fear within him was a monster of contortion and relief. His friend was right. He was always right. And it pricked at him. Just how right he was. His eyes squinted. His lips tight. And Frank could see the anger writing itself across his face. And he could feel it. Permeating the room.

"And you are angry, Otto. You are so angry. And so sad."

"Be quiet!"

"And so very afraid of your sadness."

"I said quiet!"

"You may be able to silence your own thoughts, Otto, but you cannot do the same with mine."

"So you would torture me with them?" Otto looked at Frank with fierce eyes. There was pain in them - dark and heavy pain.

"No, Otto," Frank said gently, "I would liberate you with them. I am your friend."

"Liberate me! Ha!" He said it with derision. He turned to look at Frank - expectation - hope - but mostly sneering doubt. "You?"

Frank was silent. He smiled at his friend, conveying his conviction. And then he paced around the room. Doing gestures with his hands. Stroking his beard. Scratching his head. His old friend seemed lost. Lost amid his anger. Lost in his self-denial. Sinking into the nothing of a forgotten time, a forgotten man, faceless and hidden. He wanted to help. He wanted to help his friend remember. He wanted to bring him back to the ground.

"Yes. I can help you." He said this with much certainty and assurance. Otto's eyes sparkled momentarily.

"Well then. Liberate me."

"It is a process."

"What process? Do it now. I want to be liberated now!"

"You are such a child sometimes. In such an old man's body. It's hideous when you act like this."

"I am hideous?"

"And vile."

"Vile?"

"Your anger and your hatred have twisted your tongue - and thus it is sharp and pointy, always ready to strike and pierce."

"You are speaking in riddles. Riddles will not help me."

"Oh but they will, Otto. It is the riddles that touch your deepest hidden secrets."

There was silence between them. The air in the room seemed hotter. And almost ash-like. Otto pulled a chair in front of the picture and sat down. He looked at the boy. The young and beautiful boy. If only he could see that beauty in the mirror when he looked upon himself... all would be forgiven. He wanted forgiveness. He wanted so much to be forgiven. But he was no fool. He knew where it must come from. Whom it must derive from. The boy. The young, and innocent, boy. The one he had betrayed. The boy whose innocence he took and tainted with his libidinous debaucheries, marred with his salacious attitude and inclination. And his abuse of power. His constant abuse of power which he held over those around him. Not like the boy who always gave. The old man sitting there, dumbfounded, confused, torn, knew only of taking.

"I am vile?" He was sincere and direct. He wanted to hear what his friend said - to see through eyes that weren't always so afflicted. Perhaps then, the truth wouldn't hurt so much.

"Look at you..." The pause stretched itself taught into seeming eternity. The fear alone of what was to be said next was shattering. Look at me? He was right. Frank was right. He hadn't seen himself in years. He evaded mirrors. Looked past himself in the reflections through the puddles in the rain. He had grown weak. And cowardly through the years. He even feared to look at the showcases through the vitrines of the stores he passed, afraid of the phantom he would see reflected back and looking out at him. Even now, even as his friend confronted him, he was in self-denial.

"I am beautiful."

"You really believe that if you tell yourself this enough, it will come true, don't you?" Frank was serious. And Otto could feel it. In the dry tone of his voice. Void of all comfort. Lacking any sympathy.

"And you are here to tell me different?"

"I am here to tell you the truth."

"And what is that my dear old friend?" He was mocking Frank now, smiling, his lips grown mischievous. Hinting at his own fear. Inclining toward the realization, and yet, to proud to just let go. Frank remained calm. More serious than before.

"Your anger has wounded you deeply," he said, looking deep into his friend's eyes, reaching far into the past, to when they met, the young man he knew then, so beautiful, so true. "And your mislead self-hatred has turned the world against you. Your thoughts are clouded. Your emotions twisted. And your body shows it all. Your down-turned lips. Your mad and raging eyes. The way you squirm just sitting there. The epitome of weakness itself. The way in which you check your every thought. And check again. Afraid of what is truly lying underneath it all. Afraid that it might not be all so bad. And so cowardly before the shame that presents itself upon such realization. Who are you, old and dying man? You are but a fragment of the prince I met so many years ago. You have diminished yourself. Your growth retarded by your very own incapacity. Vile and shameful coward! That is the truth! You are unable to even recognize yourself so long ago!"

"Enough!" Otto was raging. The pressure pounded against the inside of his head. You bastard, he thought. You are supposed to be my friend. They locked eyes. For a moment, Frank was overwhelmed by the rancid hatred being poured into his soul. But he remained. He cared deeply for his friend. "Leave now."

"Otto..."

"I said, LEAVE NOW!"

"I will not."

Otto stood up and approached Frank. He got right in his face, like a cock, ready to fight, full of false pride and overblown masculinity. His chest puffed-out. His nostrils flared by his huffy breathing. He was a lion, a predator. Old. Broken. But he still had the strength to summon the fight in him. And Frank was just a gazelle. He taunted him with a malicious smile and deathly gaze. Frank took a step back.

"What will you do?" he asked sincerely, his voice honest, his tone true. "Will you silence me? Hmm? Will you hit me and prove beyond the shadow of a doubt, that all I've just said, is the truth, the naked burning truth of your own hell?"

"You are mad! Stop speaking!"

"No, Otto," Franks voice rang calm and soothing. But Otto heard different. Otto heard the sharpening of knives beneath the words, the undertone of his own destruction. He grabbed Frank by the arms. His friends body became stiff and contorted. His own fear had now spilled into his savior.

"No?"

"Otto..." He pleaded with his friend. Deep inside he prayed that he might hear him. "Look at you. Raging. Hateful. Incapable."

"Stop it!" He shook him now. "Stop it!"

Now Frank was smiling. He couldn't help it. It wasn't malicious. It wasn't belittling. It was just funny. And he began to laugh outright. And this was like a knife through Otto's broken twisted heart. His hands came to a grip around his friend's neck. And he began to squeeze. Frank's smile widened.

"You small, small man," he stated. "How little power you really have."

"Take it back!" he shouted in face with all his might. "Take it back!"

Frank was having trouble breathing. And swallowing was even harder. His speech was impaired. He couldn't muster up the strength to vocalize his thoughts. The grip around his wind-pipes tightened.

"Why are you so silent now! Speak!"

But Frank was silent. Silent and drifting. He couldn't stop him. And his silence only further infuriated Otto. He squeezed. And squeezed. Almost snarling. Blind and deaf. And he squeezed. Frank struggled. His motions automatic. He had no control. He hit Otto. In the face. The body. All over. But Otto squeezed. Harder. Tighter. Frank's hands dropped to his sides. He pleaded one more time with innocent eyes. But all he saw was a monster glaring at him. Raging full of hatred and pain. There to kill him. He stopped breathing. His pupils dilated. And Otto suddenly felt the weight of his entire body pulling him down. He let go. And his old friend fell to the floor. Still. Dead. He stepped back in horror. What happened? He pulled at his hair with both hands as he began to pace around the room nervously.

"Frank?"

But Frank was silent. He knelt down beside him and shook him. Nothing.

"No...no no no! Frank!"

It was a mistake. This is all a misunderstanding, right? But there was no comfort. No answer to his madness. Only silence. And the body. Lying still. Stiffening already. The undeniable truth of his sickly state. He saw. And still he dared to hope it was all just a dream. He would wake up. Or maybe Frank was only acting.

"Frank?" He nudged him one more time.

O few hours passed. Frank still lay where he'd fallen. Otto sat staring at the picture on the wall. The young and innocent boy judged him fiercely, without leniency. He would be judged with the full force of the law, his law, the only thing still pure in him. His most inner, deepest voice of reason. Beneath all the fears. Beneath all the denial. A voice cried loud. This cannot be! This shall not be! And he sat in the chair. Listening. It was the only voice he could still hear. It hurt him. He began to cry. Lonely tears of an old and dying man were spent in solitude. He looked for comfort at the picture. But the boy kept smiling at him. And he dared not turn to seek his friend. The shame grew deep inside him. The realization of what he'd done. Of who he was. It solidified within his being. And he had nowhere left to run.

"Oh Frank..."

He stood up before the picture. He smashed it with his fist. The glass cut him. The pain felt real. He bled. He took no notice. He turned to kneel before his friend.

"Frank...it was me. I was the monster all these years. I was the weak one. You were right Frank. You were right."

He stood up and walked to the telephone. He picked up the receiver and began to dial.

"Police department. What is your emergency?"

"Homicide?"

"Hold please." Three rings.

"Homicide. This is Detective Savage."

"Detective..."

"You alright?" asked the voice from the other end. "Just relax and tell me what happened."

Otto felt paralyzed. It all seemed so absurd. So ridiculous. But it was all true. Frank had done it. He smiled at the irony of it all. He'd really done it. He'd shown him the truth. He sat down on the chair next to the phone. The truth. So brutal. So harsh. So weighted with burden. Who could run from this?

"I did it."

"You did what, sir?"

"I saw the truth."

"Aah, sir?"

"And I have no where left to run."

"Maybe you should call the hospital." He was about to hang up.

"Listen to me!"

"Sir, please, we have a lot of serious work."

Otto took a deep breath. He held it for a moment. The oxygen relieved his tension. And as he exhaled, his burden came out.

"I am the monster."

"Goodbye sir..."

"I killed them! I killed them both."

There was a pause on the other end. Otto could hear the detective's breathing halted momentarily. And then a slow and controlled release.

"Where are you now, sir."

"I am at home. Sitting. Waiting. For you. I won't be running anywhere."

"And where is that?"

"Court Street No. 2. 16th floor. Flat number 8."

"We'll send a car."

The police arrived shortly. The young officer rang the bell. Nothing. He put his ear against the door. He heard no movement inside. He rang the bell again. Silence. Stillness. A strange sensation passed over him. He shivered in discomfort. He didn't like it. Any of it. Something seemed strange.

"What do you think?" he asked turning to his partner.

"I say we bust it down."

"Should we call for back up?"

"No need."

They went to their patrol car and came back with a battering ram. The began to pound the door. It didn't take long. A few hard knocks and the hinges gave. The door flew open. There was a peculiar feeling in the air. Silence. Complete deathly silence and stillness. They walked down the dark corridor to the main room.

"What the..."

It was shocking. Horrifying. But mostly sad. They saw Frank's body lying there. Still and stiff. It had already begun to turn blue. And it made no sense. Where was the caller? Where was the culprit? The only other person in the room was an old and disfigured man, a gruesome expression of anguish and sorrow contorted into his face, and yet, there was serenity in the lips and around the eyes. He was still swinging from the rope that had hung him. Right between the picture on the wall and the dead corpse of his friend. There was no note. Only the two bodies. Their secrets shared between them even in death. Their bond still intimate. The two officers were silent. Otto's body ceased to swing. One of them noticed the smashed picture on the wall. He stepped closer toward it and noticed the young man with boyish features. Smiling. Graceful. Free and unburdened.

"I wonder who this guy is?"

"I'm sure he's somebody."

"Hmm...yeah...somebody."

"You and Me, Together!"

The sun is shining down on me, annoying. It's brightness - so arrogant and proud. And what can I do. I am reduced. Completely. Utterly. Wholly. Reduced to this spec of dust that can only allow itself to be consumed. By the heat. By the brightness. Come on! Burn down on me! Burn down on all my fellow men. Consume my arrogance in the brightness of your own. Destroy my pride with one swoop of the shining fires burning proud with dignity. Relinquish me from this here torture. This prison I...have built around myself. Oh free me sun. And burn my evil heart. Burn it through with utter truth. Show me my most hidden face. And bring me to my knees before the greatness of thy splendor. But I am standing. I am standing still! Because I fail to see the light of his benevolence? The sun? The Son! But how can God be given a son. The all powerful. All being. To be so anthropomorphized. So desecrated! He is no more a son than I. And that is why he is called the son of man. Born of man. And died a man. Only to be portrayed a god upon his parting. I cannot believe in such idolatries. I believe in love. For all. Even for the vile and ignorant one. And God. God knows this to be true. Love is the only power. The only truth. Because within the deepest reaches of every man's heart lies love, waiting, wanting, needing, nurturing. And fear. And hatred. All but invasive forces lurking round to seize their moment of bliss. For they are empty. Empty and void. And wanting to be filled always. As love desires above all else to fill. And so I command. My love. To fill the empty void, so cold, so dark, with warmth and loving care. To give to it what it most desires. Forgiveness. And a chance to walk with all the rest into the coming dawn. For I am the creator. I am the all master. And I am the slithering snake. The destroyer all the same. You are me. And I am you. And together. We are One. And two. And three becomes the union. I hear. You speak. I speak. You listen. The world is but a memory for me. Even the future is remembered, not foreseen. And where is my light? It burns. And withers. And burns. And withers. And burns. And here I seem a cloud of smoke. Around the burning bush! You and me! Together! One! And two! And three!

"The Heat"

It's hot. So hot. Just laying here, still, silent, in peace, and I'm all sticky. It's begun to smell, a little thick and condensed like, maybe like musk, perhaps, but I've never actually smelled real musk. Musk perfume. No musk though. So I can't be certain if I smell musky, if that would be the right word here. But thick and condensed like, that's for sure. More like laundry actually. Like laundry and that sweet scent of milk. I've turned into a basket full of old socks and dirty underwear, sweaty shirts and worn-out shoes. And undershirts. Lots of undershirts. No bras. No. No thongs. Or any lace or anything like that. Just dirty clothes. And sweat. And the whole days sun on me and my long black pants. The smell is mild and present. The heat is sweltering and muggy. I lean on various parts of myself. The interconnectedness with my body only makes it hotter. I pace around the room. Calming my nerves, creating circulation. But the air is still, the heat persistent, and my temperature rising with my every motion. So I sit again. In the heat. In the humidity. The sun outside seems poison. But I go out anyway. Perhaps a little shade somewhere. Yet the concrete and asphalt are everywhere - even underneath the park. And the warmth radiates. From wall to street to wall again, only to be repeated endlessly. I find some shade. The air is warm. The breeze caressing my cheek is almost like the human touch - but there is something sinister in the way it envelopes me - the oncoming heat of a burning oven. I have so little control over it. The heat. Only myself to be the variable which fluctuates in this equation. But the sun, I have no control over. I can only watch it grow. I must only watch it grow. It is the natural part of me that wishes to alter dire circumstances. The natural part of me that fights to live in nature. The natural part of me willing to sacrifice what is not mine to give. It is the natural part of me that grows. The natural part of me that learns. And where is my divinity in this? The divine that knows, that is, that transcends all this spatial distortion? It is all-pervasive. Watching. More than content to allow this natural part of me to dissolve back into essence. It does not care for the man in me. It sees the God, it is the God. And therefor, acts in the interests of a higher realm. But I am here. And I am hot. And when a cool wind blows, I know that it is here and now. And that wonderful sensation of cold water flowing through me as I drink a glass. All here. All now. And I can choose. Between the two. As easily as changing dirty underwear. I'm here. I'm now. I'm everywhere in no time.