Friday, December 30, 2005


Emperors and kings are crippled,
with suddenness
on their knees in deep green fields of slaughter
from the woods come silver hunting horns,
and they sound like the monks, who,
finding so many dead,
can no longer pray for lone faces,
nor fold the hands of our fallen

Brown guns rust, even as they spit
Splitting the emerald delight
of the wild, lonely lawns
And the trees surrender their branches,
Splintered by the shredding, selfish gunfire

The ground is soft, the duff moist with the light rain
That came this morning, offering peace,
But was turned back by the whisper of boots
Meandering through the dead leaves and dancing grass

All the leaders are crippled, torn to death
And now we are escorting their wives to the trench in which their husbands lie
Lime covers the wonderful green of their clothes
And their beards are frosted, they remind us of clean mess halls
And polished stainless galleys

Butchers and carpenters ferry their children out of the town
Putting the burning steeple at their backs
The hoods are drawn up, but they are not the monks, who cannot continue their songs

And so it is up to us
To fold the hands and close the eyes, to leave silver in the scarred dirt

The hunting horns are silenced by the coming dark, and the grass takes this moment
To repair
And so do we, looking to the sky
It is silver, and cloudless, very beautiful from this particular field
The crows haven't woken yet, and will not be here until tomorrow
Cawing heresy as they scratch at the soil
That we will fill our trench with

It is very beautiful here, especially the skies
And this place reminds of another place
Where there are no wild grasses, nor trees or crows
And where I could make no trench for my dead,
So stubborn was the sand.

Monday, December 26, 2005

The price of peace is one bullet.

Where you put it is up to you.

What shall I do when my teachers die?
The dead must be punished. I cannot properly atone otherwise.
Winter is always the time of sadness and longing.

The longing is indiscriminate-it is an urge to go to a place, but the place is undefined. The sun is very weak during the day, the light futile. There is nothing about it that I want. The night is bitter, and it is very alone. The cold is majestic, and creates a concrete loneliness that is somehow desirable. It is a time to be alone, and listen to the cold form in the air. The branches and the leaves die, because it is the right thing for them to do, and so we are not so sad.

We are all standing together, but we are not together, because it is wintertime. Our angels have deserted us-they, too, wish to be alone.

Statues are warm-they comfort, in their silence. The spoor of the world turns them black and brown and the trails of rust weep down their shoulders. They are alive, in their dying.

The source of light is deep and far away and the stars dim and fade.

We stand, waist deep in the cold, listening for something. We can hear the longing, coming like hope through the splintered trees. But again, the longing refuses to take us anywhere.

It is wintertime. And we will be sad when it goes, and we grow into the joys of bright, hot summer.
I only know shy soldiers.

Thursday, December 22, 2005

We stood in the dark, under a brilliant moon, snow stretching to east and the west, mountains growing to the south, and to the north, brilliant, ghost-white birches, fading into deep nordic dark. And from the warm dark, drums, the rolling, lapping tongue of a thousand sacred drums.

Cold. I am listening to the cold.

It is bitter cold, and the fog is very, very cold. Not the alluring cold of San Francisco, the kind that sets in between the sunset and the brittle, fragile pre dawn, but a painful, bleak, and industrial chill, which fills every empty space, like a predator.It is a cold that warps the steel and wood we seek shelter in, and it eats everything, it eats hope and love and they are made sheets of ice that I cannot see.

There's nothing left to but listen.

Sunday, December 18, 2005

I am surrounded by profoundly sad people, and by their friends, who do not know that these people are so sad.
I need to locate a copy of the film Beau Travail. On DVD.

Please help me. I can't find it.
The following music, made by people who never forgot to not suck, now presented in list form for your perusal and enjoyment -

Anax Imperator
Death in June
Ah-Cama Sotz
Voice of Eye
A Challenge of Honor
Front 242
La Joyaux de La Princesse
45 Grave
L'Ame Immortelle
Turbund Sturmwerk


Wednesday, December 14, 2005

All systems stop.
Nowhere to go.
All systems stop, nowhere to go.

I am sitting in a room on a decrepit steel barge. My teeth ache. It is cold, bitter cold outside, but it is warm and silent inside. There are books on the walls here, ignorant books, with titles like "Hot Paint" and authors like Dick Couch and Jo Jo Mayfield and some woman who insists on beiong call Lafondah Kyii.

I am casting out into a world I once knew, that I can no longer be a part of. I am reaching for my friends, but they will soon be out of my grasp.

I am scared. The woman I love, she is scared.

I am going to be a father, and while I am happy, it sometimes hurts worse than bullets, the searing pain of eastern woods and fires made of snow.

Friday, December 02, 2005

For the purpose of clarification- I am not a pimp.

I am a sailor.

Which is more like a whore, when you think about it....