A Fine Day

“Listen to this and hear the mystery inside: A snake-catcher went into the mountains to find a snake.”

I have no language for this. 

This English will not tongue my tale, not wag my words free. 

The farsi of my nature, the echo of tribes and stories and the deep expression of experience and the Resonant vowel and idiom are my dream catcher, my diviner, my detector – God's lash and plume. 

So no. 

English is not my choice but this is the vessel at hand and the boat must be emptied lest we all drown. Like my tongue, my eyes they are crippled and failing, falling, fluttering, flailing with this image of The unimaginable 

– Ohhh death and sand and dropped weight and the skin shed of great loss. 

I cannot ask for Allah's words. 

A God could not dwell here and create symmetry with soul and merciful hearts. 

There is no rule or psalm, there is no blessing or parable or passage, 

There is not GOD in this neither on a cross or crossing the dessert. 

We are all so alone here. 

Except there is the rush of warm bubbling blood. 

On this the tiny chin here spit up where once the milk of suckle would stain. 

Or here the length of languid leg lying loosely in a stream straining the day's soot and mud and Drudgery 

Down down down, wash it down now red droplets and smears where once soothing liquid lapped Hours before. 

Here the blood leaks cozy through her chest, replacing rhythm and pulse with a hiss if you could hear It. 

As before, it beat a passion pouring when her lover walked by:

Rising as he lowered his gaze, smiled and flicked at her with his tailored hand: 

“I will ask them for you. 

 I will see you in my mother's fine array 

That one day we will give to our child. 

Ours is glorious and full gallop and unending and free of mending. 

Do you see this too my love?

I know you see this because you see my halting heart 

And hear my breath catch and slow as we share this moment passing. 

I will ask them for you.” 

This then brought his hand in that moment mounted from her shoulder down to measure her with palm open the trace of her being, the miracle of her fashioning to elbow and then to hand, the centimeters of his love. 

Who made this? 

Who could ever design such magnificence? 

“Oh please let it be for me.”

Here the blood lets now. 

But what of he that spent these moments of dreams that first were thoughts making to solid state. What would we find when we slit him open nose to nuts?

For surely we will. As sure as wind and tears. 

Pare him back, splay, flay and make him for our hateful and slumbered eyes. 

This has made us all dull and sleepy. Our business will thud forth. 

We expect to open the blackness in the ebon warrior – the hell of hells. 

We see maggots with glistening bodies. Strong and hard and new and helmeted, laughing busy bodies. 

They slide around in him his reason. Jumbling willy-nilly at arteries, near misses, careening reason rolling about treacherously from one mite onto the other. 

A chaos of bugs and anger flying about with shards of this boy's sanity. 

Each toll he took in his time knocked a fence post loose and tenuous. 

Gotta get there before the whole thing falls apart. It's a shit storm waiting to happen. 

But ahhh. Too late. 

His father's bluster and curse, his mother's drink, his young bride's fear and flirt and fall, his young son's fix on the little 4 by 4 screen with the murky murky men jumping and shooting and kicking and doing Daddy's work. That's Daddy, Momma. Look. That's Daddy! 

And his fence and barrier come looser with each uncoupling. 

And a friend and fellow mate marine might make a moment of mirth with the mask of melancholy mounted on this man's mug and not put it in any order for him but the order of 

another round.

Another round of shots or shelling or service or of beating and bating the captured doll. 

Will they let us play with this one? 

Won't you let us have this one to piss on, to wipe our shit upon, 

To spray our come on 

To twitter and facebook and jpegs and skype? 

Let us have this and that will stay you a further fall-out. 

But no matter. For that would not do in the end. 

Oh No. 

He shined his shoes and metal and ambled out with a whistle and a whiff. 

Ahhh the morning. More opulent today. 

And even with that word –opulent – a word I have no ken for, whatsoever. It is not mine, that word. 

It is given to me as a gift. I have received new language today. This is a rare day. A fine day. 

Look at my fatigues. 

They are fine silk robes and I am going down to cleanse as my elders did. 

I think this day is called Echad. For it is my first day. 

Oh I will purge today. 

And this day is telling me that I can. And that is just the exhale. 

What will I take in? 

This path is so clear. It is starlit. It is romantic. 

I am romance. I am love. I am the essence of the heat in me. 

I am. 

And I am off to pay my respects to them that's got me a little sad and confused lately. 

But no matter. It will be good for us all.