Halo Light and You - For April (Poem)

Halo-Light and You

I’d like to be like…

The light that bounces off your halo

Always with you

Just observing

Admiring

Reflecting back your glow from the ether star

I would be content

Just seeing the way you interact

With a tomato

Deep and red and round and perfect

At the market.

I would not be silent

(Halo-light seldom is)

Instead I would be especially boisterous

Attracting others to you, saying,

Hey! You gotta see her!

Isn’t she beautiful?

I would be like your personal electron

Orbiting the nucleus of You

Never too far

Happy to be

At your service.

--Eric Marley

November 2012

Waiting - Updated Poem

Waiting

I'm lonely

Standing here at the same crossroads

Where you promised me redemption

Almost fifty years ago
Suitcase packed
Hopeful glance
Sunburned face
Windswept hair

My watch doesn't work any more
It always says it's noon and midnight
But I look at it anyway
And my heart clicks in my wrist
For a while yet

And I have to wonder
Do you stay away

So you can say

I never played

By your rules?

But what promises did you give me
Except that you'd arrive?

I look down both still roads today
And all I see are two dirt paths
Empty
Blowing dust
Tumble weed
Expansive blue
The definition of empty
Waiting for redemption
For new grass to grow
Where the roads
Move slow
Then stop
So stillness can catch up

Now the rotting clay of my stale belief
Molders under the weight of your inadequacy
In this place
You're always late;
I always wait.

But still…

Somewhere under all the words
The latent promises

There is something.

I know there is…

Somewhere.

There is something under what is taught

Something older than the words that are used to

Spread lies about You

There is the airless air

The lightless light

The soundless mirth

And more than anything else

I want to be there

I want us to be here
I want you to arrive
Finally
With excuses and promises I can believe

I want to drop my heavy soul

And float into you again

Merging far beyond mere words

Between the June strawberry  

And her red coat

Between the nucleus and the electron

Within the vastness of space

And the empty sockets of a prehistoric skull

In the first breath of death

And the last strife of life

Between the water and the fish

Within the realization of love

Outside the boundaries of movement

Within the home of the ancients

Until the night reverses itself

And the eastern star blooms,

I want to be reabsorbed.

I miss you.

I feel forsaken by you.

I want to love you.
I wish I understood you.

Please
Please
Please
Let me

Someday.

--Eric Marley

December 2012

I Love You (Prose)

I love you.
Let’s look at this, shall we?
First we have:

I....

It’s named after the things we see with.
It is a designation meaning “self”
It’s what we call our-Selves.
Self – apart from You
Self – with its needs
Self – with its wants
Self – with its beliefs
Self – the first syllable in the word “selfish”.
Self – with its caustic cauldron of feelings that keep many I’s closed
Self – the first thing that was and the last thing that will be
At least to the Self.

Next we have:
Love.
A moniker we use for the feeling we give everything from “strong like” to,
On the other end,
A motivation to
Sacrifice things like
Bodies
Time
Money
Lives
Life
Love is what brings.
Love is the conduit from the eternal to the mortal
(And as importantly)
The mortal to the eternal
Love blurs boundaries
Love blinds I’s.
Love seeps to the lowest point, filling it up
Making the same sound as pure water running across smooth stones
In the magic moments
When it does so.

You.
Separate from I
It’s named after the things that we are made to see with.
It is a designation meaning “apart”
It’s what we call (y)our Selves.
You – apart from my Self
You – with its needs
You – with its wants
You – with its beliefs
You – the first syllable in the word “universe”
You – with its caustic cauldron of feelings that keep many I’s closed
You – the first think that was and the last think there will be.
At least to the Self.

Is it any wonder that there is war?

You and I
Separated by the
One
Word
That could save us both.
We could see
With our true I’s
That there is no Self.
Ultimately
There is only
Love.

I will be satisfied
When I can look into your eyes
And instead of saying,
I love you
I will say only
Love.

--Eric Marley
November 2012

Leaves / Return (Poem)

Leaves/Return

I see brown leaves running down the highway.

They look terrified.

They dodge, jump and skip

This way and that
As they try to avoid the cars.

With a drowned-out crunch and a cloud of dust

Molecules of leaf-skin are released
To the throbbing pavement
And the complicated air

What is left of the leaf, smaller now

Continues to run
But another
And then another
And then another car
Dismembers them
Until finally…

With a great heave
And a simple sigh

The leaf soul returns

To the clouds in the sky.

At first they complain

To the great green god
Who simply smiles a rainbow hue
Until they laugh
And forget the fast cars
And the dark strip of crushed rocks
And remember other things:

Like unexpected warmth

On a wet mother limb

And their first peek from dark bark
At springtime blue sky and
Stern but smiling clouds;

And the young couple that sat in their shade

Looking at one another
In the same way that the great green god
Looks at them now,
Their eyes smiling rainbows; 

They recall the pleasant change

That made them into translucent light
And the peace they felt
As they released
To the sweet earth
That they had always admired
From a distance.

The great green god, knowing the answer

Then asks the leaf spirits
If they would like to visit again
To the place of the
Incomprehensible Dichotomy of Peace and Terror.

When they look back with some trepidation

The great green god smiles
And says, 

“How about you try once again

But this time, as a raindrop?”

When the leaf spirits look back with wonder

Considering this
The great green god adds,

“You can reflect my light back in many colors
Like you did as mature leaves
Except it will be in the sky
And you will give the people hope
And a reason to slow down
And pause, and wonder.”

 Leaf hands then raise.

 And raindrops fall down.

--Eric Marley

November 2012

Dream: August 24, 2012 (Dream)

DREAM, AUGUST 24, 2012 430am

I’m up before dawn because of a dream again.

In it, April and I were walking along a railroad track towards a station. We had just come off some adventure and were talking about it as we walked. I don’t know why we were walking the way we were; only that we were walking away from the streets, cars and grocery stores behind us. The adventure we had just come from had involved them all, and the experience was fresh in our minds.

As we walked – it seemed to be in the late morning – I saw someone approaching. It was a woman, dressed in a black overcoat. As she approached, I could tell she was a larger woman, with white hair. As she was about to pass, I jumped in front of her and looked hard at her face.

“Gramma Marley?” I almost yelled at her in surprise and happiness.

She looked at me as if she had almost hoped to walk by without saying anything. Nor did she smile at first. She did not look very flourishing; her skin had an almost grey pallor, and her eyes were likewise nowhere near their normal sparkle. However, she hugged me back when I hugged her. I introduced her to April and she said something about “lovely girl”. The three of us began to walk back to the train station to where I had been inexplicably walking with April.

“How have you been, Gramma? What have you been up to?”

I remember more the feeling of the conversation than the conversation itself, but we talked of her life, and how she was now back here looking around, for lack of a better term. She was looking in on her relatives. In the process of speaking about her life, she spoke of a song she had listened to during what she called “her divorce”, and how this song had cheered her. She spoke of friends and experiences she had had in her life. As she spoke, her skin got lighter, and her eyes began to sparkle like I remember them doing when I knew her here. She looked like herself again as we sat in that lonely train stop (it looked like a bus stop, really). The feeling was light and cheery.

April was sitting next to me, commenting and asking questions from time to time. Suddenly I saw something move in the near distance behind Gramma, about 30 yards away.   

I was addressing Gramma and was in mid-sentence, but I suddenly shouted, “Grampa!”

He was peering at us from a ways behind Gramma Marley. Only his head was visible because he had walked up an embankment on the other side of the station and the tracks from where we sat.

I ran over there, feeling badly and, to an extent, feeling Grandma’s own feelings about cutting our conversation short so abruptly and leaving here there alone with April. Her feelings were that it was expected because it was Grandpa, and that is indicative of how it always was in her life with him; always seeming to play second fiddle, never getting the attention she probably deserved as the strong personality she was. However, she had ultimately made a measure of peace with it, understood it, and was beginning to forgive it easily.

Grandpa looked fantastic. He was young as I had never seen him. He wore his black-rimmed glasses, and I think a leather jacket. His blue jeans were rolled up at the cuffs. We hugged each other and I smelled tobacco, as I remember smelling on him as a child. We spoke fondly, smiling and laughing regularly in our conversation. I don’t remember the specifics of it. He was not “with” Grandma, not at this point, but they kind of travelled together. We smiled at one another with the utmost familiarity and regard.

I saw that he had a cigarette in his hand, still smoking. “Grandpa, I always knew you as a smoker,” I had said in an observational, matter-of-fact tone. I had said it off the cuff, and I realized that it could be taken as an accusation as soon as I said it. It was not meant to be, nor was it taken by Grandpa as one, I could tell. However, all he did in response was make a very funny face, flick the cigarette off the tracks we had been standing upon, and turn and start jogging away down the tracks. I watched him go, smiling.

Returning to Gramma and April in the bus/train stop booth, we continued our conversation. Gramma affirmed that she and Grandpa were not as they had been in life, but that they were never too far apart. I got the impression that this was more Gramma’s doing than Grampa’s, but that there was some peace around the arrangement, for now.

We continued talking about Gramma’s life, remembering this and that, talking about people she had known and people we had both known. As we spoke, a few others gathered; the ones about whom we spoke. None of them looked especially familiar to me, but their countenances were all smiles, like old friends at a reunion.

Eventually it was time to go. I looked at Gramma. She fairly glowed, so different from when I first saw her. She thanked me, and I said we’d have to do it again sometime, talk about her life. She demurred, as Grandma always did when faced with a compliment, saying something like she wasn’t that important. I insisted, and we parted with a hug. And then she was gone.

As April and I stood there, I saw a crowd of people approach, almost innumerable. We were no longer in a bus/train station, but in something like an airport. They were coming down escalators on both sides of us. Some of the people looked familiar as they filed past, but most did not. But what came to me as I watched them pass was significant. The thought was, and I expressed it as absolute truth to April, “Every relationship we have in this life will be accounted for. How we treat every single person we run across matters somehow in the end. And a relationship can be something as simple as a nod and a wave on the freeway as we pass someone, or as complex as family ties. They all matter. And it’s important to talk about our relationships, particularly those of our family who have passed on,” I explained. “When they hear their names, they always come around to hear what is said. It is part of their work as a progressing soul, part of their judgment and glory, to hear stories of their mortal existence from the perspective of those that interacted with them here.” This felt like an important message I was to take away from this experience.

I awoke not long after this realization, and felt that both Grandpa and Grandma were near. I felt them standing just to the west of me. Humorously enough, in the Native American tradition I currently follow, this is the direction of “The Ancestors”. It seems we get communication in the voices we can understand.     

Addicts Anonymous and Me (Short Story)

Addicts Anonymous and Me (Short Story)

“Hello, my name is Eric, and I’m an addict.”

“Hello, Eric,” they answered in benign unison.

“Eric,” the leader started with syrupy kindness, “we’ve all been there. We understand.”

How could they know, really? They haven’t been afflicted like I have, no way. The leader continued. “Eric, I can see from your face that you don’t believe me.”

So the dude’s also a mind reader, I thought. He still doesn’t know anything.

“Eric…”he started. I couldn’t help myself.

“Look, bitch,” I said in a growl with the intensity of an MMA fighter, “you don’t know. You don’t. And stop calling me by my name every time you talk to me!”

“Well,” the leader started, pushing his luck with faux patience. I could see in his eyes he didn’t like to be challenged, and he’d had no one challenge him for a long time. “What would you like us to call you then?”

“You don’t need to call me anything, because I’m out of here. My addiction is the first thing I think of when I wake up. It’s the last thing I think of when I sleep. During the day, my mind reverts to it. I dream of it. You understand me? YOU…CAN’T…HELP…ME!”

Now I was yelling, standing. I caught a glimpse of myself in the plate glass window behind the leader of the group. Hell, I scared myself. His face remained calm, but I could see something in his eyes that made me realize that maybe he was beginning to believe me.

To his credit, he composed himself, cleared his throat and said with that same bullshit sweetness, “Eric…er…I mean…friend, we’ve been here for addicts of all kinds.” The others nodded. “We’ve seen meth addicts, heroin addicts, sex addicts, gambling addicts, even workaholics come through our program. Not one has failed permanently. There is no addiction that we cannot cure.” He paused, smiling condescendingly and continued. “You’re new here. Please, won’t you tell us the nature of your addiction, and put it in the hands of your Higher Power, and let us support you in your full and complete recovery? Hmm?” The others nodded, hopefully, smiling.

I glared at him. Fine. He asked for it. “Her name is April. April Theisen.”

A man screamed and someone dropped a glass as the Leader’s face fell. Silence ruled the room with an iron fist for several seconds. The leader, his eyes wide, swallowed hard. In a hoarse voice he muttered, “Well you’re fucked.” 

--Eric Marley
July 2012

Observing Reincarnation - Prose

Observing Reincarnation

Consider with me this morning

This moment
In your mind’s eye:

A still, misty mountain lake
We are there
You and I
Only as observers
Not even as bodies…
We are Aware of one another’s Presence

We are there together

Not sitting on the bank

For that implies

Bodies

Remember

We are there
Only as Observers.

There is a tree on the bank of this lake
A willow
It has been there for a very long time
It’s trunk is gnarled
Its roots clutch perilously
But with solid firmness to
The sweet Earth

That gives it sustenance.

This willow has a beautiful, full canopy of leaves

That hang over the waters of the still lake this morning
And the mists

Rise off the lake

With the coming sun.

Can you see this?

The sun is a perfect orb

We can actually look at it
The mist is so thick
As it rises towards the clearing sky

As the sun rises higher, so does the mist.

We, as observers, situate ourselves

Under the tree
Hovering over the water

As we have no bodies
(We are only observers)
We can look close up
At some of the particles of mist
That are ascending
Rising up towards the leaves
The leaves of the ancient willow
That hang over the water
Of our still mountain lake. 

You see me
And I see you
And we smile
At one another
Floating here
And then return our attention
To the mists.

We observe that
The particles of mist that once seemed identical

Are really very different

On a subatomic level

And this makes all the difference;
It makes each one
And individual portion
A small particle
Of the whole
The Whole Lake
That with the rising sun

Gives each particle its birth.  

You and I pick one

One tiny particle
A tiny Being of mist
That has just now
Been released
From the crystalline waters

By the encouraging warmth

Of the rising sun

We smile at one another again

As the observing parts of ourselves
Hover over the water

“It’s like watching a birth,” you say in amazement
“It is,” I agree with a reverent whisper.

The particle of mist rises
With constant speed
Not in a hurry
But progressing on this windless morning
Towards the leaves
Of the overhanging ancient willow.

With some grace
And some collision
The particle of mist we are watching
Stops on one leaf
One tiny, emerging vessel
Of one branch
Of the great tree.

It stays there
Resting comfortably
Home, for now.

You and I return our gaze

And ourselves
Back down to the water

We see other particles of mist that rise

Some go higher, into other leaves
Others rise still higher
And become part of the air itself

But we also see others that
With some grace
And some collision
Merge with
Our original particle of mist.

With wonder
We see that original particle

Appear to begin to grow.

The leaf

That is holding this communion

This gathering

This commune of individual mists

Begins to bow

Towards the lake

Under their weight.

“Did you hear that?”

You say to me in wonder.

“Was that laughter?”

I say in amazement.

It was!

It seems that the coagulated mists

Just moved

And as they did

They laughed

Like we remember laughing

On roller coasters

On snow

On water

In our bodies-

So we understand

That kind of joy.

Where are they going,

This little pool of coagulated mists
That now form a drop?

Approaching the edge of the leaf

(That bends with increasing attitude
Towards the water)
The drop laughs
With anticipation!

And...

Finally…

The Drop lets go!

As it falls through the air
It is another thing entirely.
It is no longer a commune of mists
It is now a Drop
Apart from the leaf
Apart from the water
Of the Great Pristine Lake.

Even as it falls,
Weighted through the air
Through the other rising mists
It is whole
With physical boundaries
A New Thing
Definable

Able, with others

To quench thirst

To nourish plants

To wash wounds

To reflect light

Like diamonds,
Laughing as it falls!

And as we watch
In awe

This process
We see
The lake open

And with a crown receive

The Mists

The Drop

Back home

To merge once again

With itself

The Great Whole.

Joy is in your eyes

And adventure

I see that yours are eyes
Of a three-year old child
At the bottom of a slide.

Simultaneously
You and the original particle-
The tiny particle of mist that we at first observed
Speak from your deepest, happiest, most joyous selves:

“Let’s do that again!”

--Eric Marley

July 2012

Post Ceremony Blues - Prose

Post Ceremony Blues

A week ago I lived in the trees

And the animal spirits
Spoke frankly with me…

But now I have bid them a tearful goodbye

And as they watch from their invisible cover
Solemnly, with serious demeanor
(So different from their natural state)
I step towards the great mechanical platform,
And take several deep breaths
Of laughter
Of resolve
Of memory
Of something I knew
In my depth
As a child
And, standing on the platform
I am lowered into the poison of the culture
Into which I was born.

As long as I breathe in what my forested friends gave me

As long as I breathe in their memory at the back of my mind
(If not the front)

I am safe.

For around me float the carcasses

Leprous

Cancerous

Living-dead

Of those that breathe in the culture-

Having a faint form of godliness

But ultimately denying the power of their own Creator

At every turn

They look me hard in the eye

And bid me join them, but…

I will not.

Not this time.

My freedom from their illness has come at too high a price.

I see others, too
Similarly removed from their homes
Masks and regulators affixed
Smiling in front of displaced eyes
Souls partially extinguished
Swimming the polluted sea
Looking for land in it's midst
Knowing it's there somewhere
As long as they also remember
What keeps them in remembrance's course?

For me, the price of readmission are scars
My scars remind me to retrace my steps and then...

The memory of my wilderness laughter reminds me.

The memory of the moonrise reminds me.

The memory of my prayers remind me.

The memory of my vision reminds me. 
The memory of my peace reminds me.

The difference between the saunter of the forest

And the maniacal idiocy of the paved-over fields

Is far too great to ever return to them.

I see it all clearly, and this is my air.

So I swim here

For now

A stranger
With my air tank full of dreams and memories
Of connections made initially so long ago that they reside only
In the memory of the memory of my bones

And with my regulator firmly affixed

I breathe
In and out
In and out
In and out
Laying low
Waiting to come back to the surface
Of where I belong
To the company of my family
The family of All That Is-
Represented to me this time by
Owl
Ouzel
Rabbit
River
Bear
Berry
Sky
Skunk
And myriad other Beings

For we are all together
Somewhere in the future
Somewhere in the past
Somewhere in the Now

A spider’s silk attaches us
All to all
And it glistens
Smiling in the teary dew.

--Eric Marley

July 2012

Prophesy (POEM)

Prophesy

And it happened one day that,
As I was walking alone in the deep woods
The time arrived that had been awaiting my arrival
And the sun melted the last from my skin
And I stopped
And a single tear tickled my cheek
And I looked up and beheld mother earth
Beholding me with her warmth
And I looked down at the sky
And laughed with my grandfather
And the river called the name I gave myself
After that time that the rocks had regarded me
And a single doe glanced my way
And a badger took his stories back
Above the top of the ground
Back under, and into the earth.

I saw my toes grow into roots
And my hands into leaves
That sucked in the new sunlight
Filtered through blessings
Far into the violet daylight
Past years, eons, moments
Through molecules of time
Breathing in Creator
Breathing in rain
Taking from
And then
Giving back
Simple
Life.

--Eric Marley
June 2012

Trail, For April - (Prose)

Trail

I am a muddy trail

Not sloppy mud

Just moist

Impressionable

Her sneaker dented me

And the sun dried me

And I sat there

No longer smooth

With her footprints

In me

Helpless

You,

Wind that wends

Unwinds, undoes

Makes mud crumbly until,

Over sweet time,

Molecules meander

Just wander away

Hastened by you

Summer zephyr

Redeeming breeze

So now

Her footprints are barely visible

Dust blown away

Dis-remembered

My trail, my self

Now feels clean again

Safe from imprints

For wind leaves none

Ready for autumn

And the kiss of sweet rain...

--Eric Marley

June 2012

The Interview - (Short Story / Soapbox)

The Interview

I stood in front of eleven of the strangest looking people I’d ever seen. Several eyes too many. Mouths on their chests. No hair anywhere. And not a smile in the house.

The remains of what looked like about two dozen deceased humans lay in pieces here and there. Blood was everywhere. A stupid quote from a Jim Carrey movie crossed my mind, and I smiled. But as soon as it did, I forgot it. Such was the state of my mind in those days.

The Things (as their kind had come to be known) sat behind the table, staring. Amazing that they could talk with their tongues like that, but the small one said in perfect English with a strong Australian accent, “And what is YOUR explanation for what has been going on here, on this ridiculous planet?” It seemed implied that I had better impress them with an answer or I would be summarily disemboweled like the bodies around me.

I was too nervous to stutter, actually. Another Jim Carrey quote crossed my mind and I remember smiling as I spoke the words that would save my life.

“They started it.”

I guess they had been expecting something else; a type of response they hadn't liked before, evidenced by the carnage all around me. The Things stared, and then looked at one another incredulously. One of them opened its mouth to speak and then closed it again, literally speechless. Two of them began to stand, presumably to come to me to do whatever they had done to the people that they had interviewed before me. I stood where I was, unafraid. Whatever they were going to do was no worse than what I’d been through before the Things arrived. It had been a long couple years.

It was then that the Small One (who had, dare I say, feminine features) started to chuckle. The others all looked at “her”, and one by one, also started to chuckle. They did this in a way that I found completely unnerving; like I used to feel when birds would fly too close to my head, when there were actually birds in the world, before the Great Extinction.

“Now, I’m nervous,” I thought to myself, with a sense of doom.

They kept chuckling, making a sound almost like chickens.

They chuckled some more.

After they were done chuckling, they started, you know, chuckling. All the while, they looked at me. One of them drooled into his cavernous navel that was situated next to his third arm. 

“Mr. Marley,” the Small One started abruptly as the others ceased their inane cackle, “we have been here on your planet disguised as humans for over a dozen years. We watched you from our aircraft for thousands before that. By the time we finally decided it was time to come out of disguise and take over this place two years ago, you had nearly annihilated one another. Wars were constant. Famine rampant. Your elderly died poor and alone, and your young squandered their youth and health on entertainment. Your planet is polluted to the point that the bulk of the life that started on it has either become extinct or has had to adapt to be able to live in squalor. Your females grow breasts at age six due to poor diet, and your males are oversexed to the point that they are uneducated about anything but the procreative act, at which they fail miserably for lack of interest in the actual act, preferring fantasy. The one nation on earth that had a chance to do something remarkable had become just like all the others; ruled by those that could gain power by whatever means were at their disposal. Since humankind are generally governed by their own ethics above all, and since the human with the lower moral state will always have more tools for the obtaining of power than the one with ethics in a system such as this, eventually only those with low ethics were successful. This occurred until there were none of the original freedoms left, for unethical rulers always have the removal of the freedoms their subjects once enjoyed as their top priority. It makes them easier to rule.”

Small One looked at her colleagues, who looked back and opened their mouths large in agreement, as is their custom. She continued.

“So, when we ask, ‘what happened here,’ and you say, “They started it…”

Again with the chuckling. I swear it went on for 35 minutes as they stared at me with all those eyeballs. "Things", in general, have no appreciation for time. This may have gone on for hours if one of the severed legs that had been balanced precariously on a torso against a wall suddenly fell over. At this they all stopped, as if they simultaneously remembered something.

“Explain, please,” said the Small One, with a hint of impatience.

Another Jim Carrey quote. I swear. Something from The Mask, I think.

“What I meant was…well, I don’t know who started it. Well, kinda I do. You’re right, you know, about the powerful people. Looking back – and I used to really study this stuff – it seemed that really bad people took the things that all people love the most and figured out how to use it against the weaker ones. So you had, for instance, the institution of Religion using the natural love that people have of a Creator from the earliest stages of their lives, against them. So, a long time ago, maybe even before you guys started watching what was going on here, some bad people found out that they could use this love of Creator to rule over people. They made up lies that the people would believe, put it in books they called “sacred” and taught them as truth. They made them so believable! They mixed some truth in so they could fool even the smart ones of us: all this so that they could take away the freedoms of the people that believed the lies. Eventually, the people forgot most of their original freedoms and the religious rulers became very powerful. By the time the dark ages hit you had to be considered “righteous” to count for anything, to count as “human”. This was not only in America, but all over. While this sentiment ebbed and flowed, by the time you showed yourselves, it was pretty much the reigning philosophy among the "righteous" ones.

“Yes,” the Small One said, “we saw that happen. Continue.”

I paused, not really knowing what to say, but I knew I'd better say something. So I decided to talk about one of my own observations. “Well, the strange thing was what was considered ‘righteous’. Although the main guy in the holy book for the religion in America taught and lived Compassion very effectively, the ‘righteous’ taught that compassion had to be earned in order to be given. Not only by their God, but by themselves towards other people. So in the end, if it was determined that you were too different from the ‘righteous’ ones, you were simply out. You were outcast from their society. They didn’t want you polluting their ‘righteous’ children, or making them doubt their ‘righteous’ lives. In the end, if the outcasts, for instance, blocked a road with their bodies that was being used by their own country’s military to invade other countries, and take away the freedoms of people in foreign lands, the ‘righteous ones’ would get upset. They would make fun of the appearance of the outcasts, call them names, and even look on with satisfaction as they were beaten. Compassion went away. The question, “what would make them block that road like that?” was not asked any more by the ‘righteous’. It was assumed that only ‘unrighteousness’ would make the outcasts question the military. The same was true, of course, of their religion. To the ‘righteous’, even asking a question about the validity of a statement made by a religious leader was an act of spiritual treason, especially if it were not easily answerable, even though that’s what the main guy in the holy book the Americans carried did. He always asked questions of the corrupt or confused spiritual leaders in his own day, and in the end they destroyed him, just like the 'righteous' really wanted to do to the outcasts they saw, one way or another. In the end, it was all turned around. The outcasts, when they tried to preserve freedom, were called “traitors”. The ‘righteous’, when they tried to preserve the corrupt government in power, called themselves “patriots”. It wasn’t until just before you arrived that the outcasts refused to be ruled any longer and became true patriots and did what patriots always do - tried to take back the freedoms that people are born with; the right to love whom they want to, the right to choose their own government in a way that is not influenced by people with money or other types of power, the right to build their own lives without undue pressure from organizations – including the government and organized religion – in whatever way they want, the right to a planet that is not polluted. And that’s what started the final war, really. So when I say ‘they started it’, that’s what I meant.” 

The Small One opened her mouth wide and solemnly took off her hat with one of her ears. The others all did the same (except the one with the cigar, who seemed unsure of me still). They regarded me.

“You are free to go, dude,” was all she said. 

And I walked out into the silent world.     

Why? (Prose)

Why


"Why?", laughed she to I
A quizzical smile in her eye...
I took a breath
Closed my eyes
And replied...


"Because although Samson slew an army with the jawbone of an ass
Deliliah owned his;
Because Helen's face launched a thousand ships;
Because my testosterone, as scary and domineering as it looks,
Bows like a schoolboy to the royalty of your estrogen;
Because the last thing I expect to hear in my mind as my life leaves-
Is your voice, calling me home;
Because no matter how overcrowded this world can seem,
When you were not in my heart, I wandered it alone;
Because when a mountain stares back at me and asks for the password to ascend,
Your name is the answer it seeks;
Because I can live like a spartan in a cave, surrounded by rock,
But your presence in my life makes me want to make a rug of the bear
And keep a fire going, and let small things live;
Because your smile makes my breath stay home;
Because although I am stronger, you are wiser;
Because you can bear children;
Because I want to fight for you;
Because I want to stop fighting, because of you;
Because the confusion I feel in your presence
Feels like wisdom to me;
Because in my soul it is always winter, but your tulips push up through the snow;
Because there is nothing like a sunrise after a cold night-
And you are like that hope to me;
Because you don't let me forget that there is at least one person pulling for me;
Because I can take all my talents and make something nice for you (if you help);
Because I try harder when you're looking;
Because whether you know it or not,
You have what it takes to be the love of my life;
Because when my knees want to buckle at the sight of the onslaught,
Your flower in my pocket makes my fingers grip the club;
Because you don't apologize for being as beautiful as you can be;
Because you came here, in this moment, when I needed you most
After I had cried to the Universe for help 
And you heard  
And made it seem like it was my idea to find you
So I could still be a man."


"Oh", she smiled.

--Eric Marley