Is this what I've become?
This twisted thing in prison,
shackled to a leather chair and a computer
typing out god knows what
at 2:44 in the morning?

Is this really what I am?
This child weeping in a corner
pretending to be a man
screaming at shadows
and bleeding nothing but sand?

No.

I am not an animal in a cage,
and I am not an empty shell
scouring the world in search
of other souls to fill some hell.

Rush Transcript. May include inaccuracies.

Andrea Marsino: We're here today with "     " to talk about his recent best-seller, The Orchestra, which has swept bookshelves across the nation in recent weeks. A stunning display of literary craftsmanship, the book has generated a whirlwind of dialogue in all sorts of settings, from University coffee shops to local dive bars, and even, we're told, in the Pentagon. Tell us "     ", did you have any expectation at all of this kind of reaction?

"     ": Never in a million years would I have thought that I could stir up such a...a hornet's nest really. Sure it's a kind of inflammatory piece of fiction, but I never thought it'd result in so much backlash.

Andrea: Talk about unintended consequences right? How did the idea first come to you?

"         ": Well it didn't just pop into my head fully formed one day. I guess it first started to take shape at a bus station in Florida. I had just been kicked out of my Dad's house and was moving to another part of the state, so naturally I was a bit, I don't know, out of sorts. I was waiting for the connecting bus and was smoking a cigarette to **** the time and just sort've fell into conversation with this black kid who was also waiting for a connection. This was in I think May of 2013, so the situation really hadn't started to fall part yet, but the cracks were definitely showing. And that's what we were talking about, just the overall sense of things not going well, the feelings of helplessness that we as individuals, and seemingly the community as a whole, were feeling at the time. I told him that it'd get better one day, somehow and that change always is a painful process. Then the light came on and I started pondering how that sweeping societal change might be accomplished.

Andrea: There are a lot of themes in the book, a lot of subtext and implied conclusions. You've been criticized for what seems like hostility to faith and some say advocating violent political activism. What are your responses to some of the accusations that have been leveled against you?

"         ": Hostility to faith? Absolutely not. Faith is one of the overriding points of the whole thing. The objection is to organized and subverted religious teachings. Faith exists to aid humanity in the struggle of their lives and I feel like....if you examine history faith has time and again been co-opted into a tool of oppression. That's what I object to. As for advocating ****** revolution, that's another flat out misinterpretation. Yes, politics is a huge part of the story and plays a huge part in really tying the whole thing together. But it's not really about that, it's not about any single issue. It's about people, as a whole, taking back their right to not be dehumanized by anything or anyone, especially their government which is supposed to protect them.

Andrea: I see. So it's not so much about the mechanisms of power politics as it is about people's inherent value?

"        ": Absolutely. Our conception of what power really is I think is grossly inaccurate.

Andrea: But surely you can understand how your depiction of terrorist acts and a domestic insurgency is very disturbing to some people? You were a Soldier yes? Did this affect your style, and the arc of the plot?

"         ": Of course I can. And it's meant to be disturbing, it's meant to illustrate how positive forces of change can be corrupted into violence. And yes, I was an Intelligence Analyst in the Army. We were fighting an insurgency, so in order to learn how, we basically deconstructed insurgencies throughout history. We learned how they functioned, all the sides you could throw at it. And then I learned from two Defense Intelligence Agency Instructors how to start one too. Those experiences most definitely gave me the technical knowledge I needed to write something like this.

Andrea: There's also been a lot of talk about how graphic your imagery is. Many prominent individuals call it a lack of talent on your part, that you can't write without going in for the shock factor so to speak.

"        " : Ha! It's not a children's book. And besides, life is graphic. You can't portray something accurately without tackling the nasty stuff. Besides, things like ****** assault and drug use are essential to some of the characters. It wouldn't make any sense for someone to react as violently as they did in certain scenes without the reader knowing exactly what had occurred previously to form that character's identity.

Andrea: I can understand that. Doesn't make it any easier to think about though.

"       ": I don't know what to tell you. The truth is a painful thing sometimes, and portraying it was not exactly a fun process.

Andrea: And what about those very colorful characters? How did you get your inspiration for them?

"          ": Oh all sorts of places. Honestly, some are based on real individuals that I've known at some point or another. And others are pure imagination. Ta'ra and Clara were inspired by a Dane Jones ***** for instance ha ha.

Andrea: 'Blushing' That's, er, interesting. Characters from ******* is one I haven't heard before. Anyway, throughout the book is this sense of individuals being swept into something bigger than themselves and how they react to that. It's kind of ambiguous sometimes, swinging between very New Age concepts to mundane life on the same page. The quote at the beginning for instance. Very spiritual, very deep. But then you open with an interaction on a street corner.

"          ": Hmm, I guess I could try and explain about things like Theosis, which is one of the main themes by the way, but I don't think it would illustrate what I was trying to convey very well. I guess I was always kinda on the fence about divine intervention and that sort of thing until I read a piece by a friend of mine about an experience she had some years ago. Basically, she was in a diner when a Muslim woman came over and asked to sit and talk. They spoke about spirituality and the woman turned to her and said that anyone could be a prophet, like it wasn't something reserved for saints and such. It was very powerful and finally convinced me that humans aren't just ants on an anthill, so to speak. It spoke to a very, very intimate part of me. So, I took it and incorporated it into what I do. Which is write.

Andrea: Wow, that's an amazing explanation that I really didn't expect. I'd love to talk some more and I'm sure our listeners would love to hear more, but unfortunately that's all the time we have for the show today. "     " thank you so much for joining us today and sharing so many insights about your new book, The Orchestra.

"           ": The pleasure was all mine Andrea, thank you for having me.

Andrea**: This is Andrea Marsino with NPR and thanks for listening. Coming up in the next half hour we have Peggy Walker from Floyd Virginia talking about some of the exciting ways her community is fighting to keep their traditions alive today.

"Had Paul of Tarsus been convinced that he was nothing more than a wandering weaver of carpets, he certainly would not have been the man he was...The myth that took possession of him made him something greater than a mere craftsman." -Carl Jung

Drums in the distance
as the multitudes groaning
beneath the heels of power
are beginning to realize
that they have a Voice.

Too long have we waited
silent and obedient
as we have been stripped
and beaten
and murdered.

Without fanfare and trumpets
a simple slogan
shouted through tear gas
as workers march on the Arch
and the bombs continue to fall.

"HANDS UP!
DON'T SHOOT!"

Will the people of peace
prevail over such reckless
fear and hate
crawling through the bowels
of our once great nation?

Or will there be fire
raining down from the sky
children with rifles in the streets
a prophet born in a diner
become a martyr?

Once when I was younger, I caught a glimpse of what a Final Victory might be like. I had stayed up all night, wandering the empty streets and alleys of St. Augustine with two friends whose names are long forgotten. We strayed to the marina after pondering the absurdity of human existence and there, beheld a true Wonder. Just the barest taste of things to come, but an overwhelming awe. This Great Heart made of fire, bursting forth from the dark waters, an ocean of consuming majesty, such as I had never conceived. Can you imagine we, these infintesimal specks of life, being a part of this miracle, this new Day?

It began to snow. Big flakes, slowly spiraling out of the night sky. For a moment I let myself go and caught one on my tongue. It felt good to remember that not everything need be dramatic and painful. Good to feel a quiet peace for just a few seconds. She would have found this intensely beautiful. No good to think of that now, no good for yourself. There is something out of the past that continues to interfere with the present, some laughing hate born when I was a child. I met him under a streetlight, knowing he'd be there. "So you killed another love, boy, and now you're here to **** me? Doesn't seem very fair, after all I've done for you. Ungrateful I'd call it." Sneering at me with the old crooked smirk I knew so well, he lit a Camel. I told him he wasn't welcome here, did not have my permission to poison me. "Isn't this childish of you dude? Writing about trying to **** a part of yourself you hate, but that has helped you protect yourself from so much. Seems like you're whining to me, poor little boy got his feelings hurt and all that ****. There was no one there for you then except me, and there's no one for you now because you won't let the war be over." Starting to protest, he cut me off. "Don't you even dare to talk to me about her, or any of the others. You know **** well she's right and you're wrong and you don't have the right to come here and ****** at me for your own idiocy. Always trying to get rid of me and then you get hurt and come crawling back like you expected something different to happen, as if you expected to find love and happiness after causing so much pain. So what you've been lied to your whole life, she never gave you a reason not to trust her. And you brought all of this to the table, tried to hide your own wretchedness, wouldn't even tell her about your little mental health problem, so you can't be mad at me when that blew up in your face. You lied and hid not because of me, I'm just a defense mechanism. You did it because you couldn't really accept that maybe she'd love all of you, couldn't believe what you actually hoped for. Isn't that sad, this pattern of suspicion that if she knew everything she'd bolt at the first opportunity? How can you be upset when you didn't even give her the opportunity? Why are you surprised that it didn't work when you only ever showed half of yourself? No, don't interrupt me, you know I'm right. And you know what, you'll do it again, over and over and over, because you can lie to everybody else and yourself, but you can't fool me and you couldn't fool her. Admit it, you don't really find yourself lovable at all. You're ashamed of yourself and you don't even know why. So people fall in love with you and you can't accept that love. Or you fall in love with someone and strangle it. But you won't even accept that responsibility. You blame me. Well guess what, I didn't make your parents divorce, I didn't make dad hit your Mom with a frying pan, I didn't make you move in with him, I wasn't the one who ***** Kiki that night you were ****** around with Emily instead of paying attention to your friends, I wasn't the one who taught you to hate yourself and I **** sure didn't make you join the ****** Army. I protected you from all of that as much as I could......." I turned and walked back into the night.

Probably a symptom of something
to ascribe internal suffering
to an external horror.

Creeping through my guts
my hair standing on end
the back of my neck prickling.

My God I am crazy
or I am haunted
but by what has no name.

I may be a liar and cold
and that did indeed
**** a barely born love.

It is good that we could not continue
as I was not forthcoming to you
about the state of my soul.

You would have had to endure
my nightmares and my fears
waking in a cold sweat.

I do believe in evil
having seen it firsthand
dined with it in darkened rooms.

And as sad as I am
in the midst of my insanity
there is not hope
but vindication.

To say that I expected this,
somewhere deep within
is probably the only answer to be given.

A self-defeating habit,
born somewhere in the dimness
of memories left to rot.

But to have faith in something
created out of nothing
should never feel like a sin.

I have one wish,
and one only that carries any worth.

I wish to be found by you,
and yet I know that it's not
your desire.

Were you to appear at the door
Of my slightly ****** room,
it would be disappointing to
you I fear....I know.

Id not be the man you're seeking,
Never have been,
and never will be.

I will always be your friend,
will always be happy to cook
Chocolate chip pancakes for you.

But I suppose that I have to accept
that we will never be anything
but a dream.

You have your life
and I have mine.

"There is a profound difference between actual, physically manifested problems and problems arising from perception. The two are almost always experienced identically, and oftentimes serve to exacerbate each other."

I was told about Hemingway and writing one true thing. Here's today's.

Change is inevitable. Forgive me for not doing it fast enough.

Trading my *****'s cloth
for the raiment of a pilgrim
was the greatest of gifts
from you.

After wandering for years
living on sorrow
and regret
becoming empty as the desert
it was enough to have met you.

I am afraid that we will never be
that which I so fervently wished
no matter how deep my love
may envelope me.

I won't pretend that this
brings me any sort of joy
but if it's the only way
for me to progress
I accept.

I know where I am going now,
have a destination at last
that may or may not
involve companionship with you.

Some day though,
I will reach the place
out beyond Rumi's field
and in that oasis
I will build my Garden.

"What does Happiness mean to you Jon?"

First response without thinking about it: The absence of guilt and shame.

Second response after thinking about how terrible the first one sounded:
The absence of loneliness.

Third response after some serious soul searching:
Creating and sharing beautiful things.

A beautiful day
That at least exists in and of itself
Has no history and no needs
Can be quietly experienced
Without any sort of insecurity

I will go and sit by the pond then
Lean against my friend the Cypress tree
And allow myself to simply be here
And though that does give me peace
It's a bittersweet, half felt brush
With something totally beyond my reach

Leaving my shackles on the grass behind me
I simply want to share some small happiness
No ambition for me and no desire for possession
Just a yearning for some sort of reconciliation

I will continue as best I may
Regardless of my solitude or companionship
And yes, sometimes I am sad within
But I will not apologize for that
Or the deep-seated belief that all happiness comes with a price

If what I have been taught
And am trying to unlearn
Results in a further sadness
Then I accept the cost
Of being a naked human being

Wakes up
texts good morning
eats last nights tempura
drinks coffee
and is empty

Tries to read
tries to think of other things
and can't quite find
comfort in old things that used
to bring some slight relief

Makes a passing remark
and is told that if one won't forgive
one will be nothing but bitter
and alone
forever

Doesn't try to explain
that one can forgive
and possibly even forget
but that doesn't mean the same
as setting oneself up
for another betrayal

Misses dad
reminisces about some good times
long past and best left alone
and is irritated for that
***** in crumbling armour

Is a bystander
in a one sided tongue lashing
over pointless frustrations
chemically based
and promptly exits the scene

Is at work
burying half formed anxieties
underneath never ending problem solving
solving all problems encountered
except for one's own

At the grocery store
staring catatonic
through rows of frozen meals
uninterested in actually eating
merely performing a chore

Back at work
typing out nonsense and noise
not really caring for response
simply needing to affirm something
anything

And then I got to talk to you

I am consciously willing into existence the day,
when it won't be so hard for us to love each other.

I sit here, night after night, pouring myself into the cracks of history, bathing in obscure knowledge for the sake of trying to aquire some sort of superiority. Pointless. I've been burying myself in dusty scraps of information since I was a boy, and none of it has prepared me for you. You throw the beauty of an experience across my shoulders like a blanket and I shrug it off with mere facts and annotations, as if I'm afraid of what it would mean to accept the simplicity of you reaching out to me, not to explain but to share. The simple fact is that I withdrew from things a very long time ago and now I don't know how to come back. Always I must explain and analyze, pry up old tombstones thinking that if I can only find some kind of secret that I'd be able to step back into life. You told me that I hold too much back. You're right. I hold most everything back, bury it in the mass grave where I dumped the corpses of many selves. I don't know how to participate in life anymore, only to observe and calculate. And I'm afraid that if I can't figure out how to change that, it will strangle us.

When I was a child, I drew maps. As did my father, and his father before him. As to their reasons, I can further a guess but no more. Even my own were vague at the time, much more so now. At first it was mere fun, something I was good at and enjoyed. The simplicity of the things I drew reflected that. There is a book out there about a teen who draws maps of Manhattan, and that is his link into community with the people he's institutionalized with. An interesting parallel, but not an end that I share with him. If one could take all of the maps I drew and place them side by side in chronological order, one could chart the dissolution of one self, and the evolution of another. The first, probably a quick game I played with my dad, dots for soldiers and little tanks, thin pencil streaks delinating fire. And the last I think, was an overview of the Krak de Chevaliers, drawn from the memory of a lost book on the Crusades. A nine year period between the two. At some point was born the concept that as disordered and chaotic as my life and feelings were, as beautiful things ended around me, I could create order and purpose on a piece of paper. I could shape a city or a fortification to my will or whimsy, could garner accolades with a craft. Writing began that way also. And at some point, the visual precision of cartography gave way to prose, and then to poetry, and finally to apology. But the skills remained, and the practical eye that governed them. I've always been able to see maps and translate them to first person imagery. Been able to inhale a document and ingest the contents like food and drink. Today, if asked, I could tell you of the seven great walls of Constantinople, of the how and why they finally fell in 1453 to the Ottomans. I could describe in detail the failure of Charlemagne to reconquer the Iberian, and of the disintegration of the great man's realm after his death. Dead history to some, but not to me.

Show me a map of Afghanistan and I see more than ISAF and Taliban. I think that was one of the many reasons I was good at what the Army asked of me. The job itself, not the lifestyle. An excellent addition to the S-2, but a terrible Soldier. I thought too deeply about things, saw too far behind our infant of a nation to really believe in our mission. There are some children playing soccer in Paktika today with green eyes, passed down from Macedonian soldiers during Alexander's conquest and the subsequent Wars of the Diadochi. Dig a few feet into the walls of Herat and you will find musket ***** from Tarmelane's devastation alongside shrapnel from Soviet mortars. Some villages so old that they were inhabited when merchants from the great plateau of Iran brought the first tales of Rustam. All this behind a map, with soldiers far tougher and experienced than I wondering why goatherds with small arms were able to resist the most expensive military machine in history. Don't mistake me, the Quetta Shura Taliban, the Hiz-bi Islami Gulbuddin and the Haqqani Network, to say nothing of Al-Qaeda and the Khorasan Group, are people who perform evil deeds. But those tactics, beheadings and hangings, public stonings and burning, are tried and tested methods. European armies and commanders from 1632 would have approved heartily, recognized all of it as a matter of course. 1632.....A mere second ago in terms of the history of the Human species.

And so, I no longer make maps. Not for the Army, not for myself. I only write now. For many reasons, but primarily only two. As explanation, apologia more precisely, to describe and justify why I am the way I am. And for the joy of creation, the mystery of reaching into a soul with mere words. No map can ever accomplish that.

She had bid unto him, that a garden should be built. And he, with all the art he possessed, driven on by fire, had done so. He stands there now, alone in the dark, aching for her as he has never ached for anything else. Remembering the stories he had told her in the beginning, how it made him fill with light at the request. And he thinks of the strangeness of it, this soul that speaks as if it has walked out of the East on the heels of Rumi. How he can not ever seem to say these things aloud, how he fears the past has more power than the future. He wishes that he could have been given a book about her, so as to be all he can for her. This is how he communicates the deepest parts of himself, afraid that she will flee at too much tenderness, or think him weak and effeminate. Belief alone in her, and of what they share, is all that propels him forward. Knowing they have only begun, that his experience of her is merely a taste of what may be, he writes.

Premises:
1. Identity (or virtue if one wants to be an old-fashioned stoic) takes primacy in questions of morality and judgment. Concept is highlighted by Boethius in The Consolation of Philosophy, ca 534. "She (Lady Philosophy) contends that happiness comes from within, and that one's virtue is all that one truly has, because it is not imperiled by the vicissitudes of fortune."

2. If this supposition is true, then it stands to reason that, as the struggle for identity has been one of the overriding conflicts in my life, all decisions made must be deferred to my own concept of right and wrong.

3. Why? Because to compromise one's beliefs is to compromise one's self. In doing so, one betrays that which defines them.

Problems which arise as a result of this perspective:
1. Openness to new experience and ideas is somewhat curtailed.
2. Tendency to stagnate.
3. Conflict with other pillars which make up my belief system, namely radical acceptance of loved ones.

In other words, I hold my identity to be the one inviolate thing that no one can take away from me. However, I've had to fight tooth and nail to figure that out, therefore I'm extremely reactive to perceived threats to my belief system. Source of Cognitive Dissonance > trying to reconcile absolute judgments on good vs. bad with acceptance.

When first we go to bed together
careful I will have to be
in my passion
not to tear your dress
for I sew terribly.

Haunted I am
by images of you
wondering how you might
feel against me
as I labour on
through the night.

A question I have
that stands wonderfully
naked to me
how many ways
shall we find
to love each other?

I don't know how to tell you what's in my heart.

I don't know how to explain,
that I put my faith in you.

I don't know how to say,
that I don't want to be a hero
or a villain.

I don't have the right words,
for this feeling that I haven't felt
till I met you.

I don't understand what's happening,
this twirling around
and revisioning.

I don't have much to offer,
except my messed up heart
and the history that comes with it.

I do have a hope though,
a hope and a belief
in you.

Do you remember the days when we first met?
The tides that brought us together,
and the thoughts that maybe,
just maybe,
we could be free together?

And how we lived with passion,
slept with and ate of it
passion for a world with no hatred,
deriving sustenance from our love
so long ago?

I tell you now
what I should have told you then
of the enemies you would make
by speaking aloud
of your vision for a perfect world.

When they come for you,
you will be asleep in the wee hours
and they will not have uniforms
or identification
or a warrant for your incarceration.

You will be blindfolded and beaten,
held for 24 hours
and beaten again to soften you up
so that you won't be lucid
when they ask for your confession.

You will not be killed,
you will not be a martyr.

You will simply disappear.

What shall we be to each other
and ourselves
in the years to follow?

A foolish question
without an answer
but something worth pondering.

I don't know
how to tell you this
but I will do my utmost
through the medium I know best.

I can see myself walking
footfall heavy and somber,
but no empty vista residing
within my heart any longer.

I dearly hope to travel
further with you
to seek and to find
all that we yearn for.

However it may end though,
I am content within
knowing that we will
be the better for it.

Sitting at work watching the scenes of mayhem and gross misuse of force pouring out of Missouri doesn't really phase me the way that I think it should. And that in itself is cause for alarm, this kind of nonchalance in the face of injustice. It's become a common phenomenon in the years since the Towers fell however, local police armed with military grade automatic weapons, riot gear and armoured vehicles confronting crowds waving signs and throwing plastic water bottles. Albeit the violence was escalated by a small group of agitators within the crowd throwing molotovs and rocks, the vast majority of the protesters were completely respectful and well coordinated by local activists. In a kind of eerie throwback, Gov. Nixon ordered a National Guard detachment to the St. Louis suburb early Monday in an attempt “to help restore peace and order and to protect the citizens of Ferguson.”* Granted, civil disturbances are never a stroll in the park, and I commend the efforts of community leaders and law enforcement attempting to prevent violence and looting, but common sense dictates that you shouldn't shove weapons in the faces of people that are just standing in your way. Crowd dynamics being what they are, one of two things will happen when authorities respond to civil disobedience with violence, 1) the response is heavy enough and quick enough to prevent organization and coordination by the protesters, or 2) the peaceful protesters respond to violence by becoming violent themselves.

There is no map for me to follow here,
no signposts
no magic theatre
just the forest and the rain.

Whatever it is that is pulling me toward you
must have some purpose
some design
a love worth believing in.

I'm an explorer pushing back through time
pulling chunks of stone from old walls
brushing dust from mosaics
piecing together what I can of your soul.

It is what I'm good at
and what I think you may need me to be
an archaeologist of the heart
rediscovering you for the first time.

It's dark here and lonely
though I can hear you whisper to me
out of the pages and words and symbols
ushering me forward into the night.

Whatever I find at the center
must be something beautiful
something grand
but I won't make it through the twilight
without you to hold my hand.

I've always liked working the night shift, no matter what the job might be. Something to do with the solitude, like keeping a vigil almost. I've always been a night guy, wandering around St. Augustine at three in the morning when I was in school, cruising after-hours clubs in Seattle, watching the sun rise from the roof of my ex's apartment building. Funny thing is I hate big cities, so I live in a place where most everything closes at nine on Sundays and they won't sell ***** before ten in the morning. Makes no sense, but then I again I don't make many decisions that make sense.

One gets the chance to talk to strange people late at night, gets to see some strange things too. I guess I get off on it, the novelty, feeling like I've had some kind of original experience. God I hope I'm not a hipster.

Talked to a man in MN once, and it only bears noting because he didn't actually have a problem that needed fixing. For whatever reason, he felt like talking. Not about random ******* either mind you, he spoke some real philosophy. I won't do him injustice by paraphrasing, suffice to say that he likened the human condition to the process of metallurgy, which isn't all that original, but sometimes you need to hear a person say something and really mean it rather than just read dead words on a page. Whatever, call it pretentious or stupid or childish but he made a good point and I'm sticking to it. The experience had value in and of itself.

So sit back, make yourself a whiskey sour, throw on some David Lynch and place yourself here. It's storming, a real king hell of a thunderstorm, you're tired and punch drunk from staring at electronics too long and chugging coffee all day. The phone rings and you're ******, nobody wants to talk this late. It rings four of five times before you pick up. She doesn't have a problem per se, didn't know that anybody would even pick up, just dialed randomly. Guess you can talk, what the hell else are you gonna do, and you yourself know that you've done the same thing, called numbers in the middle of the night because you gotta talk to somebody, anybody. She makes you think of that Anais Nin book about Sabina, A Spy in the House of Love. And then she says she feels like that. "I've got a hurt inside," she says. You tell yourself you're not an idiot, but you know what's coming next. She says she called from a club. Thirty minutes later, you're sitting there.

Misty morning of time gone by,
sun bespeckled summer days full
to the brim with quiet love.

Loose collections of a rainwater collage,
woven blankets draped over
a sad man with a pen.

All I am is held within the small things,
all I love and breath
mere moments.

Old songs sung by the wind,
a whisper and a longing
please let me make something
beautiful for you.

I DON'T WANT TO WRITE ANYMORE.
I WANT TO DO.
I WANT TO GET OUT OF THIS ****** CHAIR AND FIND YOU.
I DON'T WANT TO STARE AT THIS COMPUTER.
I WANT TO BE.
I WANT TO BURN THROUGH MY CITY WITH A SOUL ON FIRE.
I DON'T WANT TO LISTEN TO MUSIC.
I WANT TO LIVE IT.
I WANT TO TEAR DOWN THIS LIE AND DANCE WITH YOU.

Perhaps the people who are no good at accepting things, or accepting the faults (real and imagined) of others, are that way because they're no good at accepting their own.

So there he sat
wounded and weary
spilling platitudes
***** and dreary
when first I found him
darkened and dangerous
working wounds with weathered hands
and wondering why on this worthwhile
world we stand?

From then to now and now to then
rumors of rancor and roaring
at children's feces filling
a head howling with horrendous chiding
hiding
from how near he might be to crying.

Oh don't gimme that look again babe,
that sideways glance you sneak through
those curtains of grapevines you cultivate so well,
kinda like you got some sort of suspicion
that maybe I used to be a blues player
or a James Bond villain.

I sure as **** ain't no Nick Cave
but I got a couple of bad seeds
you might have been lookin for.

Think of this as a forwards backwards
inside out message to you
and maybe I'll show it to the future,
that is if there is a future
worth showin this **** to.

I tell ya one thing though
and even though this'll make me
sound exactly like what I am,
that is to say one arrogant sonofabitch
that wants to give, I mean
really give something to you.

I want to give you whatever you'll have of me
because I don't write poetry

I live it.
And it hurts most of the time.

Except for that select couple of seconds
when you walk me back through your history
and you forget what I used to be.

I am cold and aloof
crawling through empty castles
with my solid eyes and ethereal body

A body you still hunger for

Or is it my soul you send your tendrils after
crooning songs of happiness and children
probing crevices made known to you in my weakness

Ah, and when that fails to move
my heart encased in the shards of empty loves
you send a hand searching for mine

I am not those witless dogs you take to bed
to prove your own power over the gender
that you blame for what you are

And whine all you want about how we're perfect
that we deserve each other
that I can use you as I like

I shall not be moved

You're happy to **** my ****
but you daren't listen to what I speak
Use me as you have been used
and deny it even to yourself

Don't forget that I was birthed in this
a child of the lies we tell ourselves
Son of passions whose sources
shuffle like unwanted abortions into the corner

You will never again win my hopes
while wishing for me to help you ****** your brother
You will never turn again your own hate
into your conception of what my love is

I once thought that the world was divided between the gifted and the non-gifted. I obviously count myself among the gifted, and why should I not? Do I not possess a superior IQ of 176 and a body worthy of Tier 1 reproduction status? Being born into wealth and position made it only a matter of course that I attended only the most superior of educational facilities, where my vocation as a State Psychiatrist was determined by the Board of Selection at 14. My adolescence was exceptional only in the fact of our Noble Republic's crushing victory when I was 16. I knew little of our Great Enemy's designs or dogma, imbued rather with the glorious teachings of the Ministry of Education and the need for constant vigilance against the corrupting influence of those deemed non-gifted. My blissful ignorance of the Enemy would soon change however, at my first official posting in our province's Mental and Behavioral Correction Compound. My duties for the duration of the year long post consisted or interviewing certain Counter-Revolutionaries, deemed necessary for posterity of course, and for the good of the unborn children of our State's Glorious Future. The twelve undesirables under my charge, six male, four female, and one pre-pubescent child of each gender, were to be disposed of as a matter of precaution upon the conclusion of my study. The preliminary timetable of cataloguing was ten months from inception to disposal with another two for editing and compiling the data. I cannot honestly say I welcomed the assignment, seeing it only as a test, my inception into the apparatus of the State, a mere stepping stone at best. My subjects did not even exist as people like you or me, rather effigies of a decadent past. Subjects had no names, simply numbers and faces. How can I be blamed for what transpired, for my ignorance, when all of them had ceased to be human, even to themselves?

Day 1 - Preliminary with No. 613774-1

Begin Transcript:

"Hello No. 613774-1, my name is Dr. Williams. I will be conducting a study of you and your fellow subjects over the next ten months at the behest of our Noble Republic. It is in your best interests to answer my questions fully and without reservation. This is being recorded for our State's benefit and that of Holy Father Science, so do please be polite. Shall we proceed?"

.....................

"I asked you a question No. 613774-1, it would behoove you to respond in a timely fashion."

"I have a name Herr Doctor. I would like to be addressed by it."

"You will not be disrespectful during these sessions No. 613774-1, it is inappropriate. Nor do I enjoyed having my title abused."

"I am being respectful, possibly even polite. The term Herr is one of respect in a language known as German, and since this entire setting is so very Kafka-esque, I find it quite applicable to you, Herr Doctor. And ironic, as Kafka isn't known to you. "

"Regardless, I must insist that you address me as Doctor or Dr. Williams."

"And I insist that I be addressed by my real name rather than a number assigned to me. Until then I fear I must continue to address you as such, Herr Doctor."

(Door opening)

"Guard, bring No. 613774-2. This session is concluded."
"Yes Sir."

"Good day Herr Doctor. I enjoyed our chat. Do be nice to No. 613774-2 please. She is my wife."

(Scuffling, a thump, door slamming)

End Transcript

Farewell my Love
you have gone to a place where my soul can't follow;
perhaps there peace may wrap you in her arms
and fill you with a warmth
that I never could.

These reflections of a future that will never be
a mirror into the great perhaps,
such as what you always wanted to find in the end.

I would have followed if you had let me,
would have poured myself into all the fissures in your
beautiful beating heart;
would have burned my own as an offering to you.

I see that I have not the power to take a heart
and by the power of my love
make it whole.

I thank you all the same for allowing me to see
that all we have are memories and choices.
It is the choices that give shape to our souls,
that make meaning of memories.

Such courage for you to have to make a choice
to spare me a greater pain
and for you to suffer alone.

I stand now weeping and empty
alone in the house of roses
and where now I go that your spirit is gone
only the wind knows.

Aujourd'hui, aujourd'hui .....

Est-ce que je n'ai pas se tenir à côté des rives de la rivière, des pleurs l'encre mon stylo doit avoir utilisé sur de simples mots de regret ou de honte ou nostalgie.

Nostalgie d'un baiser de fleurs, n'avez-vous pas témoin moi par écrit la calligraphie dans le sable avec l'écharde de rupture d'une épée?

Aujourd'hui, aujourd'hui .....

Vous avez daigné rendre visite de nouveau dans les petites heures, un lotus dans la vallée Ishii, retourneraient dans gouttes d'incandescence.

N'ai-je pas wince avec une nostalgie pour quelque chose que je peux à peine n'oubliez pas enregistrer dans les rêves et clignote, ce mystère vous écrire?

Aujourd'hui, aujourd'hui .....

Morceaux de papier sont tout ce qui peut rester comme preuve que ce que j'ai connu était quelque chose qui n'existait pas dans la réalité une fois.

Je n'ai pas compte que ces révolutions dans mon coeur sont uniquement l'absence d'avoir quelqu'un près de verser mon amour?

I Love You.....And You Love Me
That Is All that has any worth in this world.

So now, after this war has ended, I know I will never be the person whom you loved once.
You've written so much beauty, doing all you can to save what you believed in.....
This is my hope....my own piece of sorrow, since you have given more of yourself than I ever thought you could when we were together.
Beni Beni my dearest, I've lost who I was when you loved me, yet you still believe, and that....has cost me more sorrow than the children I have thrown to wolves.
How can you still love one such I? After all I have accomplished in the name of equality?
I tried to change our society, I tried to make those old Men wake up and realize that their way;
their way is the wrong way, the way that starving children have grown up with.
And I...was wrong.
You loved me, and I couldn't realize the value of that.
All this time later, I just am  now realizing what you have done for me...the person you have helped me become.
I've hurt you...terribly. And you've deserved someone that has the ability to treat you as a painter could portray you.
I love you ... always have.

I have been reliving the same moments over and over.
I think that if I had been a better man, if I had been able to shed this fake skin I've been wearing for so long.....
Our lives might have been very different.
At the very least, I wouldn't wake up in the mornings....
wondering who you are now.

War is a machine, make no mistake.
Insert money here, and add soldiers there
and in the end
all we receive
is blood and soil.

I don't know how to write about you anymore. The words that used to flow seemed so right, so beautiful.
But now there remains only a vague hope, a fleeting scent of oranges and the sea.
You are the place my Heart goes when I am broken open.
You are the Home I long for in the early morning quiet.
You are all good things to me, a symbol now of what once was fair.
No matter how I try, you always evade my Love, and my Longing.
You whisper to me in the night breeze, yet no longer reveal yourself to my tired soul. I can no longer touch you, or see you;
I can only feel you somewhere in the deserts and mountains within.
All the time I am searching, searching for you, though I do not know how I may find you.
There is no chart of your endless seas, nor is there a path to your home in the old Blue Mountains.
Here in this Garden I write for you, and my Heart........
My Heart cries for you.
Perhaps one day, you will hear it.

I. The Feeling of Floating:
  I've always loved the water. The ease of movement, the grace I've never possessed on land. As if I shed my awkwardness in the embrace of water. Floating at peace, almost weightless, timeless, I can feel a taste of what the monks must feel as they sing their hymns. A oneness with the senses, this knowledge that I am being conveyed by the current, effortlessly, if only I allow it to move me.

II. Describe the Color Red:
   Red is the Heart's colour, and the Heart is an ***** of fire. The passion of the day burning away the night, the fears and desperation of the dark. My garden is Red, my sheets are Red, my words written in the blood of wounded hands. Burning, burning all around me, the beat of a different drum. Red is my Heart, and it beats for you.

III. Sunrise on the Atlantic:
   Once when I was younger, I caught a glimpse of what a Final Victory might be like. I had stayed up all night, wandering the empty streets and alleys of St. Augustine with two friends whose names are long forgotten. We strayed to the marina after pondering the absurdity of human existence and there, beheld a true Wonder. Just the barest taste of things to come, but an overwhelming awe. This Great Heart made of fire, bursting forth from the dark waters, an ocean of consuming majesty, such as I had never conceived. Can you imagine we, these infintesimal specks of life, being a part of this miracle, this new Day?

He stood on the sidewalk, the image of Film Noir in a trench and fedora, smoking what was probably a Lucky Strike. Casually flicking the **** aside(a Camel in fact, he ran out of Luckies a week before) he summed up the saloon/bar/club type thing one more time before stepping inside. Done up like the Knock Knock, though with a lower ceiling and less lighting, the place was actually pretty decent. He noticed his goal immediately; acid green short dress and a belt from the Iron Age, hair as black as that raven some farmer used to own....she would have been a mighty sorceress if he were in a fairy tale. As it was, she could still charm the pants off the Devil as they say, and come off without a scratch. The Patsi in the fedora took a seat next to her, feigning disinterest. Another woman with her looks may have been irritated by the lack of attention he gave after sitting down, but not her. No, she knew Fedora wasn't here for her looks, this was business, although he didn't look half-bad either. Having that **** Tracey air still works even today sometimes. Eventually he bought her a drink after she came back from a dance and a banyo call wiping her nose. He was too well cut, too clean for a place like that, and it stood out if you looked longer than a second or two. She belonged there, could be found every Thursday and Friday night and nobody who had been there more than once bothered to ask about her or try and savy with her, but they all stared. The college kids who knew their literature, beat types and poets mostly, they all called her Wanda or the Countess and a few called her Venus. She seemed to like this reference to a far darker personality than her own, and accepted it since it added so much to her persona in that place. Mystery comes naturally to some people, and it fit the Countess better than the mask she wore as a very young woman.
They sat together for two hours, talking and drinking, but not once did Fedora loosen up and cop a feel or ease back on his stool, and the Countess, for all her outward glamour, never did goose him or whisper in close. They passed right by on their way out completely intent on whatever they were doing, or about to do. They didn't take a cab, but turned and started off down the sidewalk, pretty quick for patent leather and high heels on a wet night. I was out the door after counting thirty seconds and making a very quick phone call.

It's in there, somewhere;
the heart I wanted to give you.
And out there, somewhere;
you are waiting to receive it.

Turning inward, I weep no tears
and speak no words
nor weave broken memories together
from spools of light.

Turning inward, I wander
and I watch
and wait for you to pull me out.

It's in there, somewhere;
the verse that was made for you.
And out there, somewhere;
You wonder what I have to say.