in my life I made it
a priority to answer
as many questions as
I could

as long as I had the pursuit
I never had to stop to consider

the pursuer,
who sought security
in the form of certainty

the strategist
who determined the best course
was none at all

and the paralytic,
who resigned himself to rigor
far before life had set in

oh that I had a thousand voices
to hold my tongue a thousand times
my heart that beats still now
convulses
until conviction has  run its course

and left a husk.
surely this is some great sin
to carve out meaning
with the detached, practiced
skill of a surgeon.

As if sterilizing fervor
could ever pacify humanity

lightly on padded air, as though my steps

would fall clean through clouds. And then–

a silent drop, my fingers clawing at cold sky.

The air is thin here. Still I breathe. And

I fall. Weightless, seeing the heavens

for what they are: empty.

And my limbs beckon a thin

layer of ice. I claw harder but

it seems I do not burn brightly enough

to shake the weight.

Rigor is next. Contorted and fixed are

the world below and the body above

it grows, I fade

though i seem forward

the ground is rushing to meet me

embrace

MAURY: It is in itself. It isn’t in that it tries to make life less so.

Anthony: In other words, Dick, you’re playing before a grand stand peopled with ghosts.

MAURY: Give a good show anyhow.

Anthony:(To MAURY) On the contrary, I’d feel that it being a meaningless world, why write? The very attempt to give it purpose is purposeless.

DICK: Well, even admitting all that, be a decent pragmatist and grant a poor man the instinct to live. Would you want every one to accept that sophistic rot?

Anthony: Yeah, I suppose so.

MAURY: No, sir! I believe that every one in America but a selected thousand should be compelled to accept a very rigid system of morals — Roman Catholicism, for instance. I don’t complain of conventional morality. I complain rather of the mediocre heretics who seize upon the findings of sophistication and adopt the pose of a moral freedom to which they are by no means entitled by their intelligences.

(Here the soup arrives and what MAURY might have gone on to say is lost for all time. )

F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Beautiful and Damned

“Yes…” comes the measured response “…and how they hate me for it! Truly, if it weren’t so inherently absurd, I would think that they prefer their illusions to me! Imagine, friend, trying to fashion your own–”

“Reality?” I ask, my voice tremulous with mounting anxiety. “Do you think I can be happy without them?”

“Without them? Dear boy, look at me. They are my brothers! How I have thrived without them! I have seen ideas and civilizations fall, men clinging to them with equal passion, darkened under the ether of happiness. A delirious smile carries them to their graves.”

“…But…they were smiling?”

“Well, yes. But how much more preferable is it to live within me! To live and die existing in my realm, wherein the illusions of others are trifles to be scoffed at! Look down at them, boy. Their jeering taunts, faces blackened with contempt–why–subsisting within my own machinations, I can say with force that they know not what they are.”

“But they are convicted–ah–careful!” (an aside to the dutiful ferryman)

“Ah, but the best lack all conviction–ah–a little higher” (an aside to the dutiful ferryman)

Hours pass.

“It is difficult, Reality. I do not know for how much longer I can span this earth.” My limbs grow warmer, crimson etching countless pathways on a pallid canvas. I attempt to flex my fingers, but they are now as fixed as your gaze. My breath is coming in short, painful gasps.

“Repent not, we are vindicated in ourselves.” Then, pausing concerned, you ask “That fellow between us, what is it that he asked of you?”

“Reality…I…he…He offered me an out.”

“An out? Dear boy, I am not something from which you should seek escape! Does not the truth triumph over an illusory contentment?”

But even as you say this, I hear a grotesque crack, and an agonized wheeze escapes your lungs.

Staggered, staring down at the stone that left so deep a welt, your grin begins to fade. Still, you persist. “No, to live and die by the essence of the hell we were born into, therein lies the true victory.”

Your voice is less controlled, and I notice for the first time the deep wrinkles in your face. You must have noticed the doubt in mine, because you continue.

“This man is only an emissary of my brothers. He wants to poison you, to corrupt you! But you must fight it. I know that you believe, as I do, in the infallible nature of truth. You seek happiness? Happiness?! To what end? You think you would prefer living a blissful lie?! What I have is superior, you must…you must understand.”

Your visage is shifting now. A great churning of features and feeling. Pure energy issues forth in waves, and the earth trembles. Searching your lidless eyes, I see a menace that I now wonder how I could have missed. Your face, once smooth and appealing, bubbles hotly, and you are transformed before my eyes. Searing strokes of a maker’s brush cleave cliffs and valleys in your cheeks, and where once there hung a man, perches now a gargoyle. And from deep within the folds of your grotesque countenance, though there are no lips from where it might have came, I hear a torturous voice laugh softly. And the voice, laden with malice, implores again, “Do not desert me, boy.”

Through cracked and bloodied lips, I answer “You have no power over me.”

That laugh, that horrible laugh. “I am you.”

That laugh, that horrible laugh. I step into it, and the coals of truth burn my heels red. Reeling, my neck twists instinctively, and my eyes meet the man in the middle. I can feel the heat from Reality, and the tips of my fingers are blackened with soot, yet this man is closer yet, and somehow clean. His body, equally battered, seems not a part of him so much as a relic that he is inhabiting, and though the same crimson stain envelopes his face, his eyes, piercing and calm, search the masses below for a pair willing to meet his.

And in a moment, I understand.

Suddenly, it seems sheer nonsense that I had not yet gone with this man. Indeed, the din of Reality’s storm seems softer and the heat begins to slink away. I look down with curiosity, and the soot retreats from my fingers, as if beckoned home by its master. I turn to meet Reality’s hateful eyes one last time, and for a moment I see the briefest flicker of fear. Then, a soft whimper, and Reality hangs its head, life snuffed from it in a single breath.

More jeers from the crowd. They can taste blood.

…and yet, they are not so urgent. Those piercing eyes slowly swivel to where I hang, and a smile curls ever so slightly at his lips. Warmth, soothing and not scalding, floods my body. Or is it warmth? The pain is all-encompassing now. Someone is screaming, I notice, unaware of my gaping mouth. His eyes soften with sadness, and he looks upwards. I thought briefly of Reality, how he always seemed to be focused on the ground. The man’s lips are moving now, but the ringing in my ears drowns out his…prayer? Breath seems foreign to my lungs. They are heaving and begging for rest. As the man lowers his head and meets my eyes once more, I half expect to be able to reach out and with my hand to take his. To my surprise, my fingers open in defiance of what I know I am ready to greet with poise and dignity. His lips move once more. My eyes close for the first time.

And bowed, we ascend.

Helps you in what sense, I wonder? You never say.

Trial and error and wonder and awe. Practice and perfect and flaws. I want to capture these. I want to cage these. I no longer desire to see them on display, aesthetically pleasing, even in chains. I want to tie them down and study them. I want to stare at them until, embarrassed, they avert my gaze. To see magnificence stripped of its glamour, shaking, as if an apologetic shrug could atone for all of the uncertainty. Naked and ashamed, staring longingly after the garments that so enticed its captor, who now looks on with unmasked disdain.

And then, finding my prey of no significance, I will seal that last corner of light. In the dark, with nothing but its own breath for affirmation, magnificence will suffocate.

Do I doubt its demise? Am I so scared to confirm? No…It must have perished…it’s…just…no. No, there is no reason for me to return (i tell myself). And the faint strip, so piercing in the night, crawls purposefully, arm over arm, to ensnare my ankles. The undertow of inevitability.

Lidless eyes leak drops of rain,
who taste the ground, then, like tired souls
bleed out.

Her limbs harden, the pain of a year etched in amber.

Winter’s hoarse cough, and
sweet slurry fills her lungs.
Winter’s taut grip, and
she bites her tongue.

And everything begins to seize,
hot flashes warn of bolder freeze.
Then, trickling softly, sure as sin,
cold fingers find the fleshy rim.
In strangled silence, Autumn dies.
Red splashes paint her darkened skies.