Thursday, December 22, 2005

A Familiar Route

Chill days walking, the sound of

snow beneath these heavy boots,

assuring that, yes, these days

within a husk of humanity are

foolish and often wasted, and

that, yes, we do half as well

at everything, even with our

marvelous toys, as anything

truly built for this world might

with an unadorned paw or

claw or tentacle, as I see a

furry dog stealing quick

and silent across the snow,

never shivering from the

immobile, frigid air that

hangs across this dying

neighborhood, especially

at night when the sounds

of tractor trailers subsides.


And there is the flash of

big televisions painting the

windows of small, decrepit

houses, evidence of us in

retreat, moving from the body

to the mind and yet leaving

that mysterious thing we

think of as a soul somewhere

out of the equation, for even

those places where people go

to kneel are little more than

businesses now, little more than

franchises selling high-speed

redemption that hardly lasts long

enough to get you down the block

before all the unrelenting realities

return,


And there is the sudden sound of

a shotgun blast in an old, ramshackle

house everyone thought was vacant,

and maybe it is only my own imagination,

but it seems the drab curtains are now

more variegated in color, perhaps

decorated with high velocity spatters

of blood and intracranial fluid and bits

of bone as someone takes the quicker

routes into the arms of some maybe/maybe not

world to come,


And I do not look too long, and neighbor’s

doors are not flung open, and I do not

comment when I see a man standing

on the edge of the road later on with a

machete in his hand and a lost look

in his eye, but keep going, silent and

contained within myself, skimming

the bare surface of this place,


And the bare surface is where all the

corruption floats, and so I am gradually

sullied until little remains of what I

dreamed of when I was a boy, but only

these ghostly walkers in the chill,

remarkable for nothing, just another

vapor to rise into the hazed-over gloom

and be ignored.

10 comments:

drthunder said...

These are sobering thoghts, FireHawk.
"And there is the flash of

big televisions painting the

windows of small, decrepit

houses, evidence of us in

retreat, moving from the body

to the mind and yet leaving

that mysterious thing we

think of as a soul somewhere

out of the equation," This is a time of year when many people succumb to severe feelings of aloneness and acute loss of contact with their childhood dreams. This is a painful and revealing piece of work.

MB said...

This is dark, dark. And I was struck by the same lines as drthunder, as epitomizing the troubles of disconnection of which you write. But as dark as it is, it seems to me there's a thread of hopefulness to it, at least on a personal level (the person of the narrator). True beauty is recognizable in the most unremarkable and ordinary things of life, if one is not too disconnected to see it. Or maybe I'm projecting that sense of individual hope?

Mushster said...

Merry Christmas Firehawk :)

Bill said...

Merry Christmas Firehawk!

"And there is the sudden sound of a shotgun blast in an old, ramshackle house everyone thought was vacant"

Reminded me of a song from Steven Stills... I hadn't thought of that tune in quite a while.

Yes there is a darkenss here, but like with most of your work there's always an underlying ray of hope, of better things to come.

I too am sorry I haven't been around more!!

Firehawk said...

Merry Christmas, everyone.

Doc,

I think I've had a much better time during this the holidays than many people. I don't know that there's any corrolation, really, but this one came to mind and I wrote it. I didn't feel really great about it being so dark at Christmas. Still, I have to post them as I write them, I suppose.

Moose,

I think there always is the possibility of a positive outcome, even in dark times. As you say, there is beauty out there, often hidden in simple things we find difficult to appreciate. That's our problem, though.

Mush,

Hope you're doing well. Cheers, and take care of yourself.

Bill,

Always happy to bring up a Stephen Stills lyric. Which one, by the way? I missed the connnection, I'm afraid.

I'm sure we'll all be better bloggers when the holidays have wound down. No worries.

Everyone please have a nice holiday weekend, and be sure to stay safe.

Bill said...

I can hear the song in my head, unfortunately the name escapes me at the moment, I'll find it though!

Happy New Year Firehawk!

Soulless said...

moving from the body
to the mind and yet leaving
that mysterious thing we
think of as a soul somewhere
out of the equation

skimming
the bare surface of this place


Compelling lines, Firehawk. ^_^ You know, most times, when I read your poems, something... clenches inside. A throat-gripping sensation... yes, that is about as concrete as I can describe it. You are, indeed, one of few I know who can write with much starkness and candor. And I, both spectator and (through introspection) participant at times, always look forward to this: this sojourn to your eloquently expressed thoughts from a bird's-eye view of the world. ^_^

Firehawk said...

Soulless,

Thanks for coming by (belated though this comment is...). I always appreciate your comments. I'm glad to see that you have your site up and running again. You seem to be posting pretty frequently, as well. Great job!

Firehawk said...

Bill,

I saw the name of the song on your site. I haven't heard that one, but I'm still pleased that it came to mind. Happy New Year to you!

Jackal said...

An absorbing and gritty piece.