A man was standing on a high bridge. He appeared calm but had placed himself on precarious footing. I asked him why was he balancing on the railing. I asked him if he wanted to talk about things but he cut me off and said, Young man...I have finished writing what needs be said. From inside his coat he pulled a manuscript out and dropped it at my feet. Then he leapt. I couldnt bare seeing him fall and instead looked down at the bound pages right there. Across its face was written in thick black ink: The Evolution of Tragic Tendencies. ~ Terrified to read its pages. At glance appearing to be in poetic form. The river was dredged today. He was not found. Remaining perhaps in the between of his words and lines, had he died knowing some radical thing? And what feels like a mystery of the highest order at this moment then is not more than a thinly veiled obligation? ~ Below the inky title, scratched in pencil...five stanzas aching with a manner of distrust. Already his efforts showing like a battlefield of scrutinies. What in the mans thought had him climb onto the bridge more easily? Are their distinctions to be made about his virtues, differences from those of my mother who always placed survival in a basket with unconditional love? Was he battling evil? Was he conscripted by such dark forces? It has been said many ways that evil springs forth from the crumbling bedrock of diseased virtue. I dont know...his name might be wrath, his means might be necessary, his death might have been virtuous. Am I jealous of a terrifying strength or terrified of a malaise of weakness? ~ From the cover, below the title, slightly left: you are a house with no alarm the city without police with false gods to see you you are a shimmied door left ajar the knife missing from a drawer with false gods to hear you you are scattered among broken jars the crucifix held and abhored with false gods to reach you you are skull against the blow the shuffling and scuffling of steps with false gods to hold you you are blood on the floor the silence of a busy room with false gods to save you the light turning on and off (and off)
Posted on: Tue, 01 Apr 2014 13:56:30 +0000
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