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...