I sit and wonder

how we do it.

We

We see all that is around us,

us select few.

We Know

And We believe it to be important.

Though it tears apart our very existence

Tosses us into the most terrible of trenches

Seasons us with the most potent of spices

We push on

And We strive

for the Us that makes us.

We don't know why

or how

and especially not the What

but it is our only hope.

The fuel that fires the furnace

of the ever-present idea of pushing forward.

There are many of Us that don't believe,

but that is what separates us.

There are many that know,

but knowledge isn't understanding.

Understanding is self-sacrifice

And although coming to this understanding will cause you great pain, anxiety, fear, sorrow, hopelessness,

hopefulness, bliss, passion, compassion precede and postscript

The chasms that you know and dread.

For you've been there before

and you may never leave

but you accept what is given to you

thanks or no thanks to the mysterious forces at work

and of course

you push forward.

B&Sm Act 7: Meditation on Destruction

Part Eight: For the People

"Doctor, oh Doctor.

The blood runs in the streets,

and the children run next to it.

The violence is only escalating,

yet you do nothing.

The man of our people, the healer,

you bathe in shameless bliss.

The only man of our country, our city,

capable of influence,

does nothing?

"Doctor, did you always wish to abandon your people?

The culture which bred your mind, your talent,

the streets your mother and father walked,

to resign to a reality,

opposite your people?"

After he said this, his eyes full of tears,

I revealed to him the truth:

"It is okay, my man,

for the decision to return to my fate,

was made by some hand, and not of mine.

The altruistic nature of man,

is no thing to be ignored.

My bags have been packed,

and i've enjoyed my vacation."

Faith and Uncertainty

Performance document/clip:

"Look out, Dr. Oppenheimer!  For there are terrible chasms of despair, valleys forged by hellfire, and people screaming! But that shall not stop you, you've got the heart of Gold!"

B&Sm: Act 6: Clay as Meat

Beard and skull-mask.

"You build me up, buttercup.  Then you tear my ass down.  This is the problem with you people of earth! You emote!  And nevermind letting a pretty thing be!  And what's with Creation and Destruction, what're they gettin' married or somethin'????."

Part Seven: Many Months Later, and the Return of the Market-Man

...I look out from my window,

and I watch as the people of this town

move about their daily lives as usual.

There is a rhythm to this place,

which can only be appreciated with the right kind of perception;

as the chimpanzee, our close relative,

shows no love for precisely timed elements of sound.

As though he never contemplated, in the womb,

the comfort of his mother's heart.

The perfection of this muscle's mastery,

of the invisible dimension of time.

I feel it in my footsteps, and my vocal chords the same.

And it resonates throughout my body.

I have come to know these streets, these people,

in the same way I knew the ways of my motherland.

For people can be predictable, expected.

The patterns of language,

culture, of societal behavior,

become an easy read,

for those mastered in this specific literacy.

For people everywhere,

no matter what the status politically,

socially, economically,

wear a particular kind of mask to disguise the anxiety.

As though we were imitating ourselves,

like a camouflaged reptile,

hiding its innards of pink and red.

We all mask the truth, for sanity's sake,

for we consider those who have discarded their mask,

upon the brink of despair,

the edge of the cliff, looking down,

the barrel of the gun, pressed upon the temple;

is it so wrong to search for truth?

to be truth?

Unaware of most of the chatter,

the rapping at the front door,

the sound gets louder to break my thoughts.

I open the door to find the market-man,

his face grave, on the verge of tears.

And I always knew, that if i ever saw him again,

it would be without the best of news...

Part Six: Pondering in the Poppies

...But i can feel every blade of grass.

This sensuous connection,

the feeling of true warmth and home.

As though mother earth and I were meant to co-exist

in such a respectful way to each other,

and every other solitary simpleton recycled throughout,

this strange happening of happenings.

As I tumble about,

physically connected to the ground on all planes,

rolling about in the bliss of peace,

the vast infinity of the sky above,

the solid density of the clay and earth and rock below,

I wander about in my wonderings.

The Market-Man was about half past a circling of the sun

in the direction of home,

and I lay amongst the poppies,

sickly silent,

yet thinking all the while.

What does a body do

when in conflict with it's environment.

When the very circumstances of it's time

it's culture

it's personal perception of creation

and destruction

disagree?

Part Five: A Distance for Silk, and Substance

...The Market-Man and I were to travel.

To Cover distances of luscious green abundance,

of biting, hostile desert.

Footsteps, and remembrances,

Thoughts, and electric impulses,

swept and forgotten by heat and sadness.

Out of this desert, where only death survives.

The land which we seek has something for the both of us.

The Market-Man, meaning the only man who makes money

from the market, is good with selling silk textiles.

I, as a healing man, seek medicine.

This medicine, will heal what no other can.

For medicine, as metaphor, is really what I seek.

My medicine is the simple contemplation, peace

In thinking that I may never leave this new place.

That i have found that peace to ease my worried,

aching body.

To stay, would be to abandon my people,

the tradition of my family,

the pride of our evolution.

But to stay, 

to stay...

Would be the ultimatum of personal reward.

To settle with what I have, into a life,

the retirement of a grueling career,

into a harmony with my surroundings.

To join the chorus of the peaceful parts of this planet,

a sick, symbiotic,

and musical bliss felt through every bone

as though it were Beethoven in the flesh,

guiding the sonic spectrum at the whims

of his heightened emotion....

Part Four: To Leave this Life and Land

..."Doctor! You know I do not believe in games,

especially not those dependent upon chance!"

This was not a satisfactory answer, because

the man did not know the circumstances of this circumstance.

To win: I would go with him on his next trade.  Fully funded.

To lose: We would go about our lives as normal.

He said, "My friend, what stock do you hold

in these silly games.  A man of your class, 

you should heed the Word for our God has blessed you.

And our wonderful bride takes care of all things,

controls them, and always knows the outcome.

Like yourself, as a babe,

Forth through your mother's birth canal,

He knew every hair on the head passing through.

Yet you believe in this false god of Chance."

I reply, quite aggresively now, "Choose now!

My good man, for whether or not your god Governs

this happening of all happenings,

He has no control in the unraveling of the dice,

so heads, or tails!"

"OK, heads! Only because i believe this to be your eccentric sillyness!"

As the shiny silver sputtered and flickered in the air,

it fell with a soft pitter-pat on my palm,

and read with my destiny.

My destiny to be free from this,

at least for a little while.....

Part Three: Heads, or Tales of Travels

..."Ah, Doctor. You are always so curious of this,
as I always see it in your eyes.
A desire i see in every man, woman, and child,
To retreat far away from this land. Like an infant,
groping for the cover and safety of his blanket,
while the thunder rumbles furiously.

"Yet of all the people in this city deprived of the ability to reach,
you are among the few able to do so. To relocate in a land of peace,
yet you stay in your city."

I contemplate this question for a moment,

for although this utterance was not a question,
my friend seemed to imply the three letters of a why.

The market man went on; "Even now you question,
why it is that you continue to serve in this absurd cause,
you put band-aids on bomb-raids, and mop the blood
with a tattered, stained hand-kerchief. The graveyards are full,
and the shrill cries of the midnight hour,
the only orchestra ever to sting my ears."

After saying this, he broke out in a fountain of tears; a quite pitiful status.
And i could never remember a time this good man had sounded so cynical.

I urge him to get a hold on himself, for the flow of tears could damage his product,
and customers would not purchase soiled goods.

Changing the subject, I implore him to tell me again of the east, for i was in fact planning a bit of a vacation. Since the market-man was a friend of mine, and he knew the travels to the lands of textiles well, I decided there could not be a better traveling companion.

I say to him, "My friend, do you partake in games of chance?"

Without letting him answer, i continue,
"But of course you do. Any being here or there,
there or here, and all throughout this universal mystery,

are all under the random guidance of chance.
The day you breathed that first, intoxicating breath of life,
and every breath since; you encompass it, become the essence of it.

And whether or not you accept chance,

is your choice.

Yet it prevails regardless.

"So tell me, in an understanding that your choice shall decide the fate of your near future, 

what do you place faith in;

the head, or the tail of this coin?"...

Part Two: The Mannerisms of a Market-Man

..."Joyous times!
Our sins cleansed, our soils moistened.
A symbol of blessing, manifested by God Himself!
If only She didn't make metaphor so easy,
these subtleties could never be so sweet.

"For it is the One True Thing,
the thing that makes the blood run through my vains,
the passion that is the love I have for my people,
the adoration I have for my loving God,
his holy daughter,
the mystical bride who controls all chance.
It is the wonders of these ways which makes me truly feel
the sensation of every breath,
the endless beauty of the blue bliss of a limitless sky.

"It is She which connects all, which gives reason, purpose.
It is Him whom is our strength in these trying times.
For how do you know the worth of a man,
If his worth never meets trial?"

He paused from his anxious blather,
and the true symptoms of belief spread across his sweating, round face.
For I have always asked the question:

Faith, and buried doubt;

What's the difference?

I mostly ignore this man's crying plea, and I state:

"Yes, such beautiful weather.
Tell me my friend, for I know much about your travels.
But there is always more"...

A Good Welcome From Dr. Oppenheimer

The wind whips past, hurling tear drops and rain spots fast.

The whistle and wurr, and harsh clatter upon the windshield

like the sound of the distant machine gun

The rumble of the senseless spill.

The precious, the coveted liquid,

making vampires cringe in their graves.

Rendering the diseased helpless with jealousy,

To be lying,

On a bed of broken rubble, shed from sheds and buildings,

like a reluctant autumnal oak, dreading the inevitability of change.

As I watch, the sky pours out it's anger.

I am overcome with the beauty of these raging rains, 

for most of us hardly remember the last time the bombs gave way to nourishment.

And the children bathe in the streets.

They splash about

unmoved by the blood red puddles, 

and the elders look on,

hardened by age, the years of inhumanity,

make way for a new definition in their dry, sandy, and hollow eyes

of what it is to be.

The parched soil sucks down this celestial moisture,

reviving the earth and clay previously deprived of life.

I watch this from my Crystal Glass window,

gold-plated in all the fancy that currency could afford.

I knowingly pass by my rain jacket,

down the stairs,

regurgitated onto the street like a man of paper,

treading hot coals.

The streets are cracked and separated,

enough to hear hell moaning, and beckoning beneath.

I do not walk quickly,

for there is nothing to fear in a land which thrives upon it, feeds upon it.

I wander slowly to the market, absorbing the sounds and smells of a city in heat with violence.

A wounded dog whimpers past with begging eyes,

more helpless than the child amputee,

the gangrenous, whimpering grandmother;

but sympathy is expensive, I tell myself,

and I shoo him away.

The market is particularly un-lively, today, as most days.

Trade is cooperative, and in this city of conflict, cooperation is dryer than the desserts of my compassion, dryer than the largest lake of dead, rotting fish; so I purchase rice and flower, and the red wine, of course.

The Market Man, meaning the only man who makes money from the market,

is a man I know well.

A short, quiet, bald man,

whose only desire is to do no harm, be no man's stumbling block,

to delicately stay off the confrontational radar, in fear of his god's wrath.

He stumbles along words like a linguistic cripple.

He makes small talk of the day, through a clenched, almost optimistic smile.

It was as though he and everyone else believed things would get better, and everyone would remember and experience civility, plain and simple.

His fearful demeanor sickens me.

He frequently speaks of his travels to the far away trading posts, and the peace of the countryside.

He boasts of his pride in his city, and his people he serves,

but there is a silent, tearful longing for a place where a human can be just what he is, without a single dread-filled moment...