Thursday, February 21, 2019

Speak Loudly, Do The Ghosts We Carry.

I startled awake afraid, hands raised seeking a threat to strike. The sensation of weight and confinement crowded me as I grasped at anchors to pull me away from the dream. I remembered dirt. I remembered a small space. I remembered malice filled eyes looking down at me. They wanted me in the small place, to stay there, to keep me there. I don’t know what they were or what animal or nightmare form they were part of. I do know they saw me as sure as I saw them. Intelligent as they were uncaring. I don’t know if they were part or cause of whatever placed me in the filling, pressing dirt but that they wanted me there was without doubt.

I asked Diogenes to stop barking for a moment and tell me what this dream could mean. He brought forth a lit lantern holding it close to my face before asking me how honest I wanted us both to be. I tried to answer but the lantern’s illumination was so bright I had to turn away. 

A hand then fell upon my shoulder. Friendly Seneca smiled at me and asked where it was the dirt came from. I said I did not understand as all dirt comes from the Earth, is the Earth. He nodded and asked how is it in the Lantern’s light my hands were so clean after digging so hard. 

To them both I leveled a finger. I need answers, not lessons! I need truth, not riddles. Be clear or begone for I am troubled and need peace. 

A sudden roar of laughter struck my ears. I turned as the lantern changed in tone but not brightness. A bald cliché of the devil draped in cheap black satin poked his long fingernail at my forehead. You need to get out more, kid. he said. You need to relax and just take in all the angles, dig? It’s all a sideshow. Go west find both your ticket booth and your stage.

He probably dropped them in my river, Anton. came a voice to the side. We turned to face a bearded man in robes. His feet and legs were dripping wet. The dollar store Satan laughed. Your river, my midway, Uncle Bob’s triangle, and Jim’s Dublin, you old fool. 

He shops at the Scottish Rite Aid whispered the first man from the shadows. A women’s voice, hard a railroad spike and hot as steel, shot back. Leave the comedy to those who truly understand destruction

Stop! All of you! The ones in the shadows and the ones who are the shadows. Stop it! The ones on thrones and the ones licking the best of gutters. STOP! All your voices. All your thoughts. All your ideas! I AM A WALKING COFFIN. My back hurts and my ears are sore from broadcasting all I have heard. I need to set you all down and just…rest. 

I sob with fatigue and sadness. I have no map and the waves grow higher and higher.  

Excuse me, pips a quiet voice. Do you know what time it is?

Yes, I reply. But longitude is not the problem.

Then knowledge is not the answer.

That’s not a new idea.

To continue is not new. To end is not new. To question is not new. To be mad or angry or contented is not new. That’s the point. 

Where is the Lantern’s light? Why can I only see platitudes now? Is this all I have left after falling? 

Material falls from a sifter. The sifter is not falling. You have what you hold whether you see it or not. 

I tire of this Hidden Master facade. Identify yourself and explain how you are one voice when before I was a multitude. 

You have what you hold.

I need answers!

You have what you hold.

I need…You have.