To the Palestine War-Lords
((1-6-2009/ No: 2536) (by: Dennis L. Siluk))
I
How have you fed your people upon lies,
And cried “Peace! Peace! And knew it would not die!
For now the iron demon takes to the sky,
And in your new-found city and lands,
Vigilant and fierce a deadly dragon flies.
Twenty-thousand cannons echo your ruling,
To whose philosophical exhortation to you bend your knees
And lift unto the Lord of evil your eyes?
This is Hell’s work: lower you hands from heaven
Lest those hands melt, from holding up the sword!
There stands another blood stained alter,
At your bowing, there stand the infernal seraphim
Give unto Satan, your conspiring secrets,
For the blood of nations, flow by your mandated credo.
II
Be yours the doom Palestine’s voice foretold
As unto Babylon, O ye has cursed the Lord,
Cast the evil sword, its shadow upon you own kind
And for whose pride a million souls grow cold!
You shall reap what you have planted, and hold!
You have murdered and claimed God’s permission,
And at your judgments, desolation stands;
For in your hearts, minds and souls, God has left them grow cold.
Your soldier’s parish and your civilians drown;
You are the vulture, and the fist, beating on the weak.
It is ye, whose words have sickened the clouds,
Infected the rivers and the people’s hearts:
Your prayers mislead, nor give good will:
Hide on the brow of the murder-Satan, or Cain.
III
Lift not your voices to the gentle God:
Your god is of shambles! Let your nation
Moan, they shall be your sacrifice to your king and deity:
Bel and Moloch, who offer fire and death,
A world in which ye preferred, with lies;
Learn now from horror and truth,
What God has tried to teach you!
Monday, January 5, 2009
Sunday, December 28, 2008
The Days (Tribute to Juan parra del Riego)
I
All year, knowing you’re dead,
I’ve sat in two hard-pillowed chairs,
Looking out the windows, being sad
With human melancholy, trying to restart
Those days in which you lived your poetry—
(in translating, editing, and selecting your best),
Days when your youth like mine, felt the sun
Carried ambition, from earth to sky,
Ominous days, with inspiration to share;
I live them now, but feel yours in death.
II
Today, is like any day, I suppose
As you once knew, expected death,
As I do now. The sky is overcast,
(I hear the shuddering rain, the splash
As cars drive by, their engines alive)—
And in the dash, like a river off-course, now
This is my moment when air
Being most full of life and images,
Appears lifeless, no motion, now:
Land, river and sky, we merge, the
Splash is gone. And so is my sadness.
Everything is drowned out of me, but you
(so I can write this poetic tribute).
My memories emerge (with them), I’ve found
The days you lived, the key to your poetry;
The secret closet you hid as a poet.
III
I think of all you did, when you lived
(That is, all you wrote, and might have wrote
And done before death undid you…despair)
There was much promise in your youthful
Years--your wild reserve, the color of autumn leaves
In your Face, inspiring the wind, and woods
And the bare silence in the hummingbirds.
None had such promise then, not even
Cesar Vallejo, or Borges, not even Yeats,
Or Keats, Georg Trakl, or Pablo Neruda.
Your rhythm and rhyme, scapegrace charm,
Pattern and structure of sound, verse and meter,
Accentual-syllabic line, all gave motion
As if glazed in rain, falling hard to soft…with
Disarming grace, yes, oh yes, you were bold,
As Homer, building a wooden horse
To Deceive and then destroy Troy!
In the Age of Symbolism and Modernism.
It was, was it not, in your luckless blood?
That failure came only because all passion
Was taken away in mid-course? By Death!
You shrank to nothingness, but still you
Wrote your poetry, an hour before your death!
You lived beyond the gloomy boredom of regret.
You did not deject any love, the beat of your heart,
Was for Blanca Luz Brum, no cold fortune…
Your slow death, shaped your stare upon life
There was blood within that sightless stare,
But it made you one, made you look and wrote
Your poetry in stone, at the end, alone…
IV
Your poetry has outlived you, and that sightless stare.
Your poetry Parra, has outlive that boat you rowed—
So long ago, in Montevideo and it will
Out live the painting that hung in your room
Where you sat by a table— the ultimate last hours
Before your death (with Blanca Luz and an amigo)…
I see the grief upon her youthful face, drunk
With loss, seeking some oblivious place, to hid in
Desolation, despondency, mouth open as if in horror,
Eyes staring, for the haunted hour is near, harrowing
Face, full of disgrace…for being helpless!
She holds hard onto her chair, legs half crossed,
Breathing slowly, she knows soon, what she must endure.
V
Blanca and Juan’s amigo, stood by him the hour
Of his humiliation, yet he did not turn upon them
In the last hours of the night—they in a sad self-
Loathing, Juan, concealing nothing,
He heard Blanch cry, “I am lost. But you are worse!”
Perhaps the dying do not own to their dominance.
But this night, the lights were lowered,
It was the later hour,
And then the lights went out,
then the dissipation of the night passed…
Everybody worn-out, utter destitution
And the two now knew, the world deprived!
VI
Knowing, and having heard, read the bare fact
Of your death, the word lingers in my head--
Death in that haughty room,
Shut tight, from sky and cloud,
Only silent thoughts, cast from
Moment to moment, to illume later on
With those loved ones by your side
...
The hours you and I have now known,
Even though you’ve been dead over eighty-years,
Neither denounces my poem, tribute for you,
Nor pardons, my words, if they offend…
Like you, I have seen the moon’s light, glide
Upon, and over the sea’s tide, and the waves
Lost on the sandy shore, as they recede never
To succumb to them even when the dark has come;
I hope I am strong as you (when my death comes),
Although I cannot promise what I cannot give…
and now to your Surpassed fame, O’dark!
you have turned into light!
Written 12-24-2008 (Morning); Huancayo, Peru, No: 2533
All year, knowing you’re dead,
I’ve sat in two hard-pillowed chairs,
Looking out the windows, being sad
With human melancholy, trying to restart
Those days in which you lived your poetry—
(in translating, editing, and selecting your best),
Days when your youth like mine, felt the sun
Carried ambition, from earth to sky,
Ominous days, with inspiration to share;
I live them now, but feel yours in death.
II
Today, is like any day, I suppose
As you once knew, expected death,
As I do now. The sky is overcast,
(I hear the shuddering rain, the splash
As cars drive by, their engines alive)—
And in the dash, like a river off-course, now
This is my moment when air
Being most full of life and images,
Appears lifeless, no motion, now:
Land, river and sky, we merge, the
Splash is gone. And so is my sadness.
Everything is drowned out of me, but you
(so I can write this poetic tribute).
My memories emerge (with them), I’ve found
The days you lived, the key to your poetry;
The secret closet you hid as a poet.
III
I think of all you did, when you lived
(That is, all you wrote, and might have wrote
And done before death undid you…despair)
There was much promise in your youthful
Years--your wild reserve, the color of autumn leaves
In your Face, inspiring the wind, and woods
And the bare silence in the hummingbirds.
None had such promise then, not even
Cesar Vallejo, or Borges, not even Yeats,
Or Keats, Georg Trakl, or Pablo Neruda.
Your rhythm and rhyme, scapegrace charm,
Pattern and structure of sound, verse and meter,
Accentual-syllabic line, all gave motion
As if glazed in rain, falling hard to soft…with
Disarming grace, yes, oh yes, you were bold,
As Homer, building a wooden horse
To Deceive and then destroy Troy!
In the Age of Symbolism and Modernism.
It was, was it not, in your luckless blood?
That failure came only because all passion
Was taken away in mid-course? By Death!
You shrank to nothingness, but still you
Wrote your poetry, an hour before your death!
You lived beyond the gloomy boredom of regret.
You did not deject any love, the beat of your heart,
Was for Blanca Luz Brum, no cold fortune…
Your slow death, shaped your stare upon life
There was blood within that sightless stare,
But it made you one, made you look and wrote
Your poetry in stone, at the end, alone…
IV
Your poetry has outlived you, and that sightless stare.
Your poetry Parra, has outlive that boat you rowed—
So long ago, in Montevideo and it will
Out live the painting that hung in your room
Where you sat by a table— the ultimate last hours
Before your death (with Blanca Luz and an amigo)…
I see the grief upon her youthful face, drunk
With loss, seeking some oblivious place, to hid in
Desolation, despondency, mouth open as if in horror,
Eyes staring, for the haunted hour is near, harrowing
Face, full of disgrace…for being helpless!
She holds hard onto her chair, legs half crossed,
Breathing slowly, she knows soon, what she must endure.
V
Blanca and Juan’s amigo, stood by him the hour
Of his humiliation, yet he did not turn upon them
In the last hours of the night—they in a sad self-
Loathing, Juan, concealing nothing,
He heard Blanch cry, “I am lost. But you are worse!”
Perhaps the dying do not own to their dominance.
But this night, the lights were lowered,
It was the later hour,
And then the lights went out,
then the dissipation of the night passed…
Everybody worn-out, utter destitution
And the two now knew, the world deprived!
VI
Knowing, and having heard, read the bare fact
Of your death, the word lingers in my head--
Death in that haughty room,
Shut tight, from sky and cloud,
Only silent thoughts, cast from
Moment to moment, to illume later on
With those loved ones by your side
...
The hours you and I have now known,
Even though you’ve been dead over eighty-years,
Neither denounces my poem, tribute for you,
Nor pardons, my words, if they offend…
Like you, I have seen the moon’s light, glide
Upon, and over the sea’s tide, and the waves
Lost on the sandy shore, as they recede never
To succumb to them even when the dark has come;
I hope I am strong as you (when my death comes),
Although I cannot promise what I cannot give…
and now to your Surpassed fame, O’dark!
you have turned into light!
Written 12-24-2008 (Morning); Huancayo, Peru, No: 2533
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Two Poems: Painting Words and The Andes Have Eyes
Painting Words
(a poem on life)
The weaver and their sweating hands
faces and expressions,
meats and potatoes…!
The miners and the dirt around their faces!
It’s all life in the raw, sweat upon brows
brows, and more brows—; no answers!
Leaves have one color, but it’s everything
that counts: the sky, the grass the water,
I mix my words up like colors, for the eye
of the reader, each dote of an ‘i’ is seen
before I dote it—! It’s all life uncooked,
sweat upon brows: and no answers!
There is light and darkness in my words
…finding oneself, is finding all
the little things that make up the world.
We mustn’t let the blind lead the blind
there are too many ditches to fall into…
too many questions, unanswered!
…and so little time!
No: 2527 (12-2-2008)
The Andes Have Eyes
There dwells a pushing, almost crushing
once enclosed, encircled, by the Andes:their immenseness, takes away ones breath,
and with their sardonic eyes, they suck in
the overhead sky, near to suffocating
everything within their boundaries; likened
to cascading cells, they—dominate, all within
its presence: and if you listen closely, they ask:
“What are you doing here?” You must reply…
(it’s a waste of time to try to understand).
You need simply breathe in deeply, say to them
(staring, sardonic eyes) “I’m in your hands…!”
Written 12-17-2008 (No: 2532) “The Andes Have Eyes,” theme poem for the story
“The Loro Machaco of Villa Rica” a story that takes place in the Andes of Peru.
Paris’ Stone Streets
(With Lee Evens)
He, Lee Evens and his wife, and his wife’s sister, Juliana jump on a jet in St. Paul, Minnesota, to Paris, France, where Lee has been four times, and it appears, he had a whim of an obsession after a dream to go back there again on the spur of the moment.
It is five p.m., they arrive three a.m., when they arrive in Paris, they go to a hotel, and Lee he walks the streets, the stone Streets. Juliana comes along on a fluke, to get away from her boring and somewhat tiring husband. Tiring in the sense he is emotionless to her needs, and perhaps a little indifferent, they’ve been married 15-years, Lee, going on nine, he and his wife travel together, she’s like a flee suck on a dogs tail, his tail, but Lee doesn’t complain.
It is 4:00 a.m., in the morning, and Lee is walking around Paris by himself, his wife, Patty Ann, is sleeping, as is Juliana. He finds a door open to a factory, slightly open that is, and goes into it, he is dressed like a designer of cloths you might say, soave, like hot shot writer, with an atmosphere of arrogance that seems to encircle him, as he is a writer, and journalist himself, and that look is for the most part, or has become for the most part, part of his daily look.
Now in this four-level building, people seem to overlook that he is there, and he walks about, looking here and there, and seeing sheet metal workers, and an empty assemble-line, along with tools machinists items, apparatus, gear and devises and objects used for producing cars, and different sorts of workers, but mostly the plant is empty, just scattered workers, as if they were preparing for tomorrows shift, the morning shift.
On the third floor he spots a man heavy set, perhaps six-foot tall, flat looking face, not too smart, a beer belly type of fellow, and he talks to him, the young man in his early 30s, Lee sixty-one; the young man, thinking Lee is a manager or some kind of official looking about, engineer perhaps, making sure everything is operational, gets a little friendly with Lee, and jokingly says,
“Watch, I can swing on the this pipe, and he does so, and the pipe shifts, away from the safety zone, into the open area below one floor, below, where people are working, not realizing the pipe is movable, it gets too far out from the safe zone, and now the young worker is worried how he will get back, he is a janitor. Lee, stretches his hand out, almost on his knees, to move the wiggly pipe back to the platform, The young man has a slight worried face that he might tell someone of his practical joke, which was for some odd reason, showing off, but Lee, smiles to release him of that worry.
●
Lee, finds himself getting a phone call the following morning from a gay manager, who wants to show him the rest of the plant? Johannes, the young bulky man, saved Lee’s card, showing he was a writer and journalist, whom had given it to Hymen, and he meets him, and as they are walking around the plant, Hymen, puts his hands around Lee, and Lee quickly puts a stop to that. Hymen smiles, says,
“I guess I was thinking…” he doesn’t finish the sentence—he doesn’t need to, he knows Lee is not gay, and Lee knows Hymen is now, but Lee is not belligerent about it matter-of-fact, he is quite contained, and cool about it, and Hymen, continues with the show of the plant, and then goes to show him a brown and chrome shinning roadster, there are two of them, and the older gentlemen, with an apron on the foreman, does not want Lee to take a picture, he is not gay, thinking Lee is because Hymen, is, and he being quite critical in this area, shows distain toward Lee, although Hymen is an executive officer, and the older man, Thomas, is himself a foreman, Hymen leaves it alone without protest.
The show now is over, for the most part, and Hymen, introduces Lee to Mr. Gordon Gunderson, a German in France running the plant, next to the highest person at the plant, the assistant to the General Manager.
“How did you like the plant, Mr. Lee?” asked Gordon with a warm smile.
“Quiet well,” says Lee, adding, “Hymen was a good guide, but I see the foreman, called Thomas, wouldn’t allow me to take a picture of the Roadster, not sure why? I mean if I was going to buy it, I’d have to show it to my wife, wouldn’t I?”
“Quite right, absolutely,” says Gordon, “do you realize the car runs $190,000-dollars?” adds Gordon to his dialogue.
“No,” says Lee, “but it looks like it’s worth it…!” he hymns out—at the end of his dialogue.
“Follow me,” says Gordon, and thus, both Lee and Hymen follow Gordon Gunderson down to the department where Otis Thomas works, sees Mr. Thomas, and Mr. Thomas sees all three, but his eyes remain on the face of Gordon’s,
“Take you picture Mr. Lee,” says Gordon, and Thomas just smiles,
“Can I…help…” says Thomas, as if he was going to shine a certain area, or for that matter any area Gordon found needed to be shinned.
Lee takes the clean rag from Thomas’ hand, and cleans two spots on the roadster, and takes the picture, actually he takes two.
“Very well,” says Gordon, “I hope you have what you want, and your wife will like what she sees.”
Thomas, goes back to wiping the car down, that really doesn’t need anymore whipping.
●
That afternoon, after Lee had left the plant, he gets another phone call from Hymen on behalf of Gordon, and is asked out for late lunch, at 2:00 p.m., and told to bring his wife along, and anyone else in his party, Lee explains, Juliana, his sister-in-law, may wish to come along, and Hymen, who is doing the asking, says,
“Fine, it will be just fine, Gordon wants to take you to a fine restaurant for lunch, and if you wish, we can take you to our hairstylist, your wife and sister-in-law may appreciate it, she does a great job.”
No comment is really needed, and they meet at a corner near the Café de Flora, and Juliana, says (after they have had introductions and a small conversation between the five),
“Gordon, Hymen mentioned you had a hairstylist, she’d quite fine I’m sure if she is yours, and I’d like to have my hair done, just trimmed a bit, washed and dried, and blown out before we go eat, it should only take a hour, is that ok?”
“Why sure Juliana,” says Gordon, with an apprehensive look at Lee to see if he was satisfied, and once he nodded his head up and down, and smiled, so did Gordon, and so did Juliana, and henceforward they went up onto the second floor gallery shop area, and there was the lovely thirtieth, girl named Sophia. Between Juliana, and Sophia, introductions were made quickly, both about the same age, both with shapely bodies, both talkative, both seemingly on common ground, and both at ease with each other, neither did each of them have children.
Gordon showed the gallery area of shops to Patty and Lee, as Hymen tagged along, there were several shops on the floor, as Juliana got her hair done, which during the process a lot of conversation took place, and upon their return, Juliana said, quite frankly,
“Sophia is going to close her shop Lee, and I won’t be making it to lunch with you folks, we’re going to eat at her place, she wants to show me her etchings, if you don’t mind.”
Well Hymen knew exactly what that meant, Patty was dumbfounded, and Lee was catching on little by little.
“Well—what can I say,” says Lee, “will we be seeing you later on?”
“Of course,” said Juliana, “but who knows in this world what may develop!”
And she laughed, as they walked out the door holding each others hands (and she never left Paris, thereafter.)
Written: 12-17-2008
He, Lee Evens and his wife, and his wife’s sister, Juliana jump on a jet in St. Paul, Minnesota, to Paris, France, where Lee has been four times, and it appears, he had a whim of an obsession after a dream to go back there again on the spur of the moment.
It is five p.m., they arrive three a.m., when they arrive in Paris, they go to a hotel, and Lee he walks the streets, the stone Streets. Juliana comes along on a fluke, to get away from her boring and somewhat tiring husband. Tiring in the sense he is emotionless to her needs, and perhaps a little indifferent, they’ve been married 15-years, Lee, going on nine, he and his wife travel together, she’s like a flee suck on a dogs tail, his tail, but Lee doesn’t complain.
It is 4:00 a.m., in the morning, and Lee is walking around Paris by himself, his wife, Patty Ann, is sleeping, as is Juliana. He finds a door open to a factory, slightly open that is, and goes into it, he is dressed like a designer of cloths you might say, soave, like hot shot writer, with an atmosphere of arrogance that seems to encircle him, as he is a writer, and journalist himself, and that look is for the most part, or has become for the most part, part of his daily look.
Now in this four-level building, people seem to overlook that he is there, and he walks about, looking here and there, and seeing sheet metal workers, and an empty assemble-line, along with tools machinists items, apparatus, gear and devises and objects used for producing cars, and different sorts of workers, but mostly the plant is empty, just scattered workers, as if they were preparing for tomorrows shift, the morning shift.
On the third floor he spots a man heavy set, perhaps six-foot tall, flat looking face, not too smart, a beer belly type of fellow, and he talks to him, the young man in his early 30s, Lee sixty-one; the young man, thinking Lee is a manager or some kind of official looking about, engineer perhaps, making sure everything is operational, gets a little friendly with Lee, and jokingly says,
“Watch, I can swing on the this pipe, and he does so, and the pipe shifts, away from the safety zone, into the open area below one floor, below, where people are working, not realizing the pipe is movable, it gets too far out from the safe zone, and now the young worker is worried how he will get back, he is a janitor. Lee, stretches his hand out, almost on his knees, to move the wiggly pipe back to the platform, The young man has a slight worried face that he might tell someone of his practical joke, which was for some odd reason, showing off, but Lee, smiles to release him of that worry.
●
Lee, finds himself getting a phone call the following morning from a gay manager, who wants to show him the rest of the plant? Johannes, the young bulky man, saved Lee’s card, showing he was a writer and journalist, whom had given it to Hymen, and he meets him, and as they are walking around the plant, Hymen, puts his hands around Lee, and Lee quickly puts a stop to that. Hymen smiles, says,
“I guess I was thinking…” he doesn’t finish the sentence—he doesn’t need to, he knows Lee is not gay, and Lee knows Hymen is now, but Lee is not belligerent about it matter-of-fact, he is quite contained, and cool about it, and Hymen, continues with the show of the plant, and then goes to show him a brown and chrome shinning roadster, there are two of them, and the older gentlemen, with an apron on the foreman, does not want Lee to take a picture, he is not gay, thinking Lee is because Hymen, is, and he being quite critical in this area, shows distain toward Lee, although Hymen is an executive officer, and the older man, Thomas, is himself a foreman, Hymen leaves it alone without protest.
The show now is over, for the most part, and Hymen, introduces Lee to Mr. Gordon Gunderson, a German in France running the plant, next to the highest person at the plant, the assistant to the General Manager.
“How did you like the plant, Mr. Lee?” asked Gordon with a warm smile.
“Quiet well,” says Lee, adding, “Hymen was a good guide, but I see the foreman, called Thomas, wouldn’t allow me to take a picture of the Roadster, not sure why? I mean if I was going to buy it, I’d have to show it to my wife, wouldn’t I?”
“Quite right, absolutely,” says Gordon, “do you realize the car runs $190,000-dollars?” adds Gordon to his dialogue.
“No,” says Lee, “but it looks like it’s worth it…!” he hymns out—at the end of his dialogue.
“Follow me,” says Gordon, and thus, both Lee and Hymen follow Gordon Gunderson down to the department where Otis Thomas works, sees Mr. Thomas, and Mr. Thomas sees all three, but his eyes remain on the face of Gordon’s,
“Take you picture Mr. Lee,” says Gordon, and Thomas just smiles,
“Can I…help…” says Thomas, as if he was going to shine a certain area, or for that matter any area Gordon found needed to be shinned.
Lee takes the clean rag from Thomas’ hand, and cleans two spots on the roadster, and takes the picture, actually he takes two.
“Very well,” says Gordon, “I hope you have what you want, and your wife will like what she sees.”
Thomas, goes back to wiping the car down, that really doesn’t need anymore whipping.
●
That afternoon, after Lee had left the plant, he gets another phone call from Hymen on behalf of Gordon, and is asked out for late lunch, at 2:00 p.m., and told to bring his wife along, and anyone else in his party, Lee explains, Juliana, his sister-in-law, may wish to come along, and Hymen, who is doing the asking, says,
“Fine, it will be just fine, Gordon wants to take you to a fine restaurant for lunch, and if you wish, we can take you to our hairstylist, your wife and sister-in-law may appreciate it, she does a great job.”
No comment is really needed, and they meet at a corner near the Café de Flora, and Juliana, says (after they have had introductions and a small conversation between the five),
“Gordon, Hymen mentioned you had a hairstylist, she’d quite fine I’m sure if she is yours, and I’d like to have my hair done, just trimmed a bit, washed and dried, and blown out before we go eat, it should only take a hour, is that ok?”
“Why sure Juliana,” says Gordon, with an apprehensive look at Lee to see if he was satisfied, and once he nodded his head up and down, and smiled, so did Gordon, and so did Juliana, and henceforward they went up onto the second floor gallery shop area, and there was the lovely thirtieth, girl named Sophia. Between Juliana, and Sophia, introductions were made quickly, both about the same age, both with shapely bodies, both talkative, both seemingly on common ground, and both at ease with each other, neither did each of them have children.
Gordon showed the gallery area of shops to Patty and Lee, as Hymen tagged along, there were several shops on the floor, as Juliana got her hair done, which during the process a lot of conversation took place, and upon their return, Juliana said, quite frankly,
“Sophia is going to close her shop Lee, and I won’t be making it to lunch with you folks, we’re going to eat at her place, she wants to show me her etchings, if you don’t mind.”
Well Hymen knew exactly what that meant, Patty was dumbfounded, and Lee was catching on little by little.
“Well—what can I say,” says Lee, “will we be seeing you later on?”
“Of course,” said Juliana, “but who knows in this world what may develop!”
And she laughed, as they walked out the door holding each others hands (and she never left Paris, thereafter.)
Written: 12-17-2008
Monday, December 15, 2008
Wrapped in Leaves
(Part eight, of “The Loro Machaco Villa Rica,” saga)
Angel of El Tambo, a moment before death
As soon as death came, so did darkness, and a moment before death, came a nightmare, presumably a nightmare, a trial of, or for the dead…
a profound darkness seeped into his existence—Angel, he was dying—left on the hilltop plateau of a coffee orchard, in Villa Rica, Peru, after raping a young woman and killing her by the name of Katita (or so he thought he killed her).
Steadily and quietly, there was nowhere for him to go, his nostrils flaring through the new found darkness.
He ran for an hour without direction, then suddenly he stopped with a thudding mind—sounds followed them, sounds of drums.
A stranger appeared, he offered Angel some raw meat wrapped in leaves (as if it was his last meal, perhaps trying to take his mind off the moment, or perchance trying to occupy it), then the sounds of drums encircled him, but still at a distance—but closing in. Angel sat down and ate a portion of the meat, and then wrapped it back up with the leaves, “You have twelve-hours,” said a voice, as he started to stand from a squatting position, his knees trembling.
“Wish I was with the gang again…” he said aloud, looking about, in a stupor.
Again he ran into the darkness surrounding him, howling like a mad and lost hound. Something behind him was trailing him (he didn’t think about the girl he had rapped, tortured, it was now like before, all self-interest, if anything he would learn, dying, death or living, nothing changes at the last second before death—in most cases that is, and now his mind was preoccupied with his surroundings, and other elements that he was facing.)
There was two worlds surrounding him, it was as if he was being hunted, “Twelve-hours,” he repeated to himself (not knowing exactly what for, but if he was to guess, it would have been before the two figures behind him caught up to him.)
He was running, and it came to mind, he had run almost half a day, some forty-miles (the last thing he remembered was that he was puking up and out his guts, dying, and was this what dying is all about, his subconsciously, tried to analysis, another voice tried to intervene, but he wouldn’t listen).
He saw a sunset before his eyes, lying in front of him, now there was two shadows chasing him, behind him: ‘henchmen,’ he murmured. He had caught a glimpse of them, they looked as if they had come out of the middle-ages, and then came sounds again, those drum sounds, closer and closer, and the two men behind him had chains and a battle axe, under their arms.
He really didn’t expect death to come so soon, nor have these visions or nightmares or whatever they were from whatever dimension they came from, he figured death was just darkness, and silence, and everything fainted from his mind, gone forever.
His life flashed in front of him, like a movie, especially his last act of violence, of Katita, the one he pulled off the bus, rapped.
He was completely naked now—except for the meat and leaves he still held in his hands, the last taste of food he’d ever have, that was in itself a death warrant.
The closer he got to the sunset, the closer the two henchmen got to him, as if they were in a race, and time was of the essence. Before him now, out of nowhere came a million cottonmouth moccasins, as if to block his bath to the sunset, and accordingly, he did have to slow down, lest he lose his balance and fall into the clutches of the moccasins, now slipping and skidding on them anyhow. The drums were now louder and faster than before, and they appeared to be closing in on him. It was a few minutes to his 12th hour (in real time, it perhaps was minutes or seconds), and the next thing he noticed was that he no longer needed air to survive, and the sunset was gone, and he was completely dead, and the two henchmen chasing him, were really, real.
Angel of El Tambo, a moment before death
As soon as death came, so did darkness, and a moment before death, came a nightmare, presumably a nightmare, a trial of, or for the dead…
a profound darkness seeped into his existence—Angel, he was dying—left on the hilltop plateau of a coffee orchard, in Villa Rica, Peru, after raping a young woman and killing her by the name of Katita (or so he thought he killed her).
Steadily and quietly, there was nowhere for him to go, his nostrils flaring through the new found darkness.
He ran for an hour without direction, then suddenly he stopped with a thudding mind—sounds followed them, sounds of drums.
A stranger appeared, he offered Angel some raw meat wrapped in leaves (as if it was his last meal, perhaps trying to take his mind off the moment, or perchance trying to occupy it), then the sounds of drums encircled him, but still at a distance—but closing in. Angel sat down and ate a portion of the meat, and then wrapped it back up with the leaves, “You have twelve-hours,” said a voice, as he started to stand from a squatting position, his knees trembling.
“Wish I was with the gang again…” he said aloud, looking about, in a stupor.
Again he ran into the darkness surrounding him, howling like a mad and lost hound. Something behind him was trailing him (he didn’t think about the girl he had rapped, tortured, it was now like before, all self-interest, if anything he would learn, dying, death or living, nothing changes at the last second before death—in most cases that is, and now his mind was preoccupied with his surroundings, and other elements that he was facing.)
There was two worlds surrounding him, it was as if he was being hunted, “Twelve-hours,” he repeated to himself (not knowing exactly what for, but if he was to guess, it would have been before the two figures behind him caught up to him.)
He was running, and it came to mind, he had run almost half a day, some forty-miles (the last thing he remembered was that he was puking up and out his guts, dying, and was this what dying is all about, his subconsciously, tried to analysis, another voice tried to intervene, but he wouldn’t listen).
He saw a sunset before his eyes, lying in front of him, now there was two shadows chasing him, behind him: ‘henchmen,’ he murmured. He had caught a glimpse of them, they looked as if they had come out of the middle-ages, and then came sounds again, those drum sounds, closer and closer, and the two men behind him had chains and a battle axe, under their arms.
He really didn’t expect death to come so soon, nor have these visions or nightmares or whatever they were from whatever dimension they came from, he figured death was just darkness, and silence, and everything fainted from his mind, gone forever.
His life flashed in front of him, like a movie, especially his last act of violence, of Katita, the one he pulled off the bus, rapped.
He was completely naked now—except for the meat and leaves he still held in his hands, the last taste of food he’d ever have, that was in itself a death warrant.
The closer he got to the sunset, the closer the two henchmen got to him, as if they were in a race, and time was of the essence. Before him now, out of nowhere came a million cottonmouth moccasins, as if to block his bath to the sunset, and accordingly, he did have to slow down, lest he lose his balance and fall into the clutches of the moccasins, now slipping and skidding on them anyhow. The drums were now louder and faster than before, and they appeared to be closing in on him. It was a few minutes to his 12th hour (in real time, it perhaps was minutes or seconds), and the next thing he noticed was that he no longer needed air to survive, and the sunset was gone, and he was completely dead, and the two henchmen chasing him, were really, real.
The Hoarse Whisper
(Part six of “The Lore Machaco Villa Rica,” saga)
I
The Lore Machaco gang, escaped down into the valley of Villa Rica, crawling at night to distance themselves from the Peruvian soldiers, sent out to capture them for terrorizing buses that went from Lima, to Huancayo, in addition, Juan Diego Martinez had gotten into the drug business, and had graduated from ten-guerillas, to twenty, now with rifles and pistols (it was the late 1960s).
They were now crawling slowly down in the mud, in the coffee orchard fields, around the mountains of Villa Rica. They had made their way to Divine Mountain, and crossed the roughly made moving bridge, and disconnected it from the other side that is when the soldiers equally all agreed to leave the gang alone for the time being. The area was hot, full of mosquitoes, and they had to find fresh water to supply themselves constantly, and there was only a platoon of them, forty-four men in total, and two had been wounded, and were being carried by four other men, feeding them, with refills of water from their helmets, wiping the sweat from their foreheads with rages, everything being done with a clumsy mildness. That also was slowing the other soldiers down.
●
On the other side of the wobbly bridge, was the cartel, the Loro Machaco gang, the Boss, Juan Diego, feeling the earth move, and a sound of a wind galloping and winding up around him, and his Army of terrorists—dumbfounded of what was happening, stood stone-still, capturing the moment. He held himself tight against a tree as the earth shook for the second time; Fernando, Carlos and Angel were by his side. They were underneath, a peak, that was onto of the hill, a slope formation, overlooking them, they stood down by the hills tunnel, they were about to enter. A third quake came, it must had shook the floor of the whole valley, so Diego conjured in his mind, wherein truth it just shook the mountain area of Divine Mountain, and the area around it, and the forth quake was faint but more destructive than the previous three, it opened up a dark hole into the earth, a fissure of sorts, nearby where all twenty of the gang had been standing, and down plunged Diego whom was leaning against a tree, and his three comrades into the fissure; the other sixteen were covered up with a landslide that broke off the slope, overhead, part of the mountain had fallen upon them.
Diego felt himself tumbling hitting against the walls of the crevice he was dropping down, foot by foot, into the dark bowls of the earth, he heard Fernando’s cry,
“I’m down here, alive…not dead!”
Coming down as fast as Diego, was a ton of earth above him, when he landed—uninjured, Fernando franticly dug him out of the earth that covered him, Angel and Carlos were just getting back up off their backs onto their feet.
There was light above them, but it was two-hundred feet, and the earth soft and jagged, it would never hold their weight, but there was also a cave entrance to their back: perhaps it led to the other cave entrance, the one they were standing by, ready to enter, thought Diego. It was worth a chance, better than climbing the cliff like crevice they were in, slipping and sliding down and using up their energy.
“I wonder how many of the gang is left?” asked Angel to Diego.
“I don’t know, or care right now they’ll simply have to dig their own selves out of that earth slide!”
“Let’s get on with our journey,” said Fernando looking at the Boss.
II
There was only one direction to go in, and it had a profound darkness attached to it, so much so, no one could see their feet several feet, inside the cave.
“Be quiet,” the Boss said in a hoarse whisper, “I don’t want to upset the earth anymore, and have a cave-in, I’m sure there’ll be an entrance further up someplace…!”
The fissure was deep and Diego knew it might close up at any moment, tighter, thus causing the walls inside the cave to cave-in, as a result, hurling a tone of dirt over their heads at any second, so time was of the essence, and air was becoming thin, and everyone’s breathing was becoming faint, and voices hoarse.
As they walked between walls no more than a foot or two wide, one could feel the cool air seeping into the cave, and the four men starting to laugh as if victory was at hand. And the farther they walked the more light came into the cave, and the seepage of water was coming out of the mud walls, the men were snarling with trying to talk, but their lungs and noses were filled with dust and debris, mud and water covered their whole body, so all this appeared to have a consequence on their speech. The last one-hundred feet, the men struggled to get to the entrance, and made it, and there they were, back where they had started; several of the men were digging the others out of the tonnage of dirt that had fallen upon them.
The Boss walked up to see who was left; he looked up at what was no longer a peak in the mountain, above him, the slope, where the landslide had been created.
“Give me a count of the dead, Fernando,” commanded Diego, as if he was a general, not turning around to look at the dead bodies lying by the mudslide.
“Up to now, it looks like three broken necks, or five dead, and still counting.”
Note: Part one to “The Hoarse Whisper,” written in the morning of 12-8-2008
Judas’ Provisional Reprieve
((in Poetic Prose) (‘the Judas Dilemma’))
There were twelve apostles that sat at the table, Abraham, Adam, Moses, and Micha’el, the Archangel; they were to look at the provisional reprieve Judas had requested. And the questions were:
“Judas what did your mind see?”
“Immortality?”
“Did you not see the All-being, immutable and enduring?”
“Did you not hear the words, “Believe in me?”
“Did you to pause like Lucifer to start an iron war?”
“Did you think you were immune of your future sins, your stained window?”
“Were you in a state of unreality, thinking you were invincible to the apostate you were?”
“When did your dream of a splendor and glittering end to the Trinity?”
“Did you think you had just enough, to do what your dreams and desires wanted you to do; only to find out it was all merely a vision in- extractable (removed from reality) and forever placed into idealism; did you not think a court order would be issued unto you, upon the day of judgment? Was it not your own self-made longing, your barren spot, your private destiny, private donjon you wanted to create?
Then one of the voices sitting at the table, a judge, as they all were except, Judas, who would have his say later, said:
“Somewhere in time and space, the fragility, and strength of your faith was tested, as if measured by a gauge; we are subject to this, starvation was found in you, as the records now show, and if you could, you would have taken the Godhead, which remains intact, had it never been otherwise, and reversed it. And that was why you lost your position, not necessarily when you stood on the stone floor and took thirty pieces of silver that was forgivable. Yet that day, you being a man, failed man, and into the second phase of your brief pretense, make-believe charade, you went, filling your belly with bitter and glory for a throne you could never sit upon, disclaiming the Holy Spirit. That is what you believed in, what the records show, what the movie of your life came to be; and that is what your destiny came to be, its end. Had it not been that day, you would have known no better for another, time in any dimension, in any form or place is your moment, no one else’s.”
Then Judas said with agony and criticism,
“He (God, our Lord Jesus Christ) could have put me into a new time, a new age, in a new world, with different passions, where man discovers God, and does not lose sight of him, and perhaps a new gene in the recovery of hope which all men seem to lose and only a few regain, which includes me.”
And the Verdict was given, by the last judge, on behalf of all the judges:
“From where you have gone, you shall remain, in the arms of enmity, for did you not say, ‘But not I.’ Denying God’s rightful position. And did you not flee from fidelity and watch the Lord pass? For even the shadow of a breathing man, owes his loyalty to his creator!”
And there he stood, Judas, holding the chalice that held the unpardonable sin…!
Note: Written in the evening of 12-13-2008, in my apartment in Huancayo, Peru, No: 2530 (part two, to ‘The Judas Dilemma’)
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