THE THRONE OF ZEUS.

THE FOREST

Mine is the song of the lonesome stranger,

tied to the road like branches to the

trees in the midst of a silent forest,

trees that have known the emptiness of time.

All is lost in time: only now—there is only now.

Still as the mist on a windless morning,

fearless and swift, like thunder through the

leaves of my thoughts, they belong to no one—

whose is the voice that lives inside my mind?

All inside my mind: only sound—it's the only sound.

Silent as a sage or frothing like a prophet,

bitten by the flames that licked against my

heels, as I fled where no man follows,

deep in the woods, beneath the broken sky.

Slowly ‘round—spinning slowly ‘round.

What did you see, what did you see, 
what did you see in the forest?

What did you see, what did you see? 

More than just trees in the forest. 

 

(I AM) THE SEA

Sailing through an endless night.

Flaxen moon, my only light.

Born to live, and forced to die,

laid to sleep, and made to lie in the sea.

Tossed by waves of fate and time,

winds like fortune, cold and blind.

Skeins of lightning pierce the dawn.

Learn to suffer like a storm in the sea.

Tangled thoughts and restless dreams,

listening to the ocean scream:

No one breathes inside my tide,

no one lives to tell that I am the Sea.

RED SAHARA - PART II

My body is on fire. I burnt my shirt last night, and now my body is on fire. My chest is redder than guilt. My shoulders are medium rare. There is sand in the back of my throat, or ashes—I would drink my sweat if it didn’t dry so quickly. I’ve seen Ghardaia twice, now. My eyes have seen Ghardaia twice. My feet haven’t touched Ghardaia once; I won’t trust my eyes, anymore. The lines on the horizon have started moving away from me, the closer I get. And the flask is getting heavier, somehow—every drop I drink, the flask is getting heavier. Like an anchor around my neck.

I could start digging—for water. But more likely I’d be digging a grave than a well. A shallow grave for a deep slumber. I’d sleep better than I have in weeks. Better than I have since I left Tamanrasset; since I had the Dream—I haven’t had another dream since I had the Dream. Only a dreamless sleep in the desert heat. A dreamless sleep as my camel rode off with four highwaymen in the night. A dreamless sleep beside a pile of bones this afternoon—this whole desert is a cemetery. And the waking dream of sunset in the desert, now, with a row of shapes on the horizon: the rooftops of Ghardaia, maybe—or the lines of a mirage. Tonight I’ll stake my life on the lines of a mirage. I’ve got no choice. The flask is empty. There’s nothing left to burn—and I’ve already staked my life on words in a Dream.

RED SAHARA - PART I

They must have seen my fire during the night. Four of them—Libyans, from the looks of it—heading west across the erg, toward Morocco. Seven days to the border, another three to Tangier. They’ll sell the camel once they clear the dunes, or trade it for whiskey in the foothills. And I’ll be dead or in Ghardaia by then—either would be better than the desert. There are rivers in Hades; only an ocean of sand out here. And there’s nothing ironic about dying of thirst on an ocean of sand. 

The water in the small flask is enough for two more days. The larger canteens are gone. They took them. They took everything. Everything but the flask and the Book (both inside my shirt while I was sleeping). I’ll have to burn the shirt tonight, after the sun goes down. After the sun goes down I’ll have to burn the shirt. And that will be the last of the fuel—the shirt, the scarf, the other pieces of clothing; the Book.

But I'd let myself die before I’d burn the Book. Not now. Not after twenty years. It’s the only thing I’ve got left—the only thing I’ve ever had. To burn the Book would be to cremate my soul; I’d rather set my body on fire.

THE DESERT

The solstice is the time 

when the sun ignites the sky with violet flame.

And the heat may cause you grief,
but you won’t find no relief within the shade.

The desert has a voice, 
and out here it’s the only noise to be heard.

So if it’s wisdom that you seek, 
then just let the desert speak its ancient words.

But out here I’d choose water over wisdom— 
over all the thoughts that I might think—

and when all the choices have arisen,  
I’d trade my knowledge for a drink. 

The horizon up ahead

starts receding as your legs begin to tire,

and the sand beneath your feet
seems to boil with the heat of blazing fires.

Your thirst becomes so deep,
until you can’t even keep your state of mind.

So if you’re searching for the truth,
don’t expect there’ll be any proof for you to find.

But out here I’d choose water over wisdom—
over all the thoughts that I might think—

and when it comes down to the decision, 
I’d trade my knowledge for a drink.

CALLIOPE, CALLIOPE

Calliope, Calliope, in sleepless hours visits me,

and whispers in my ears whenever I’m alone.

Calliope, Calliope, the source of creativity—

believe me when I tell you: these words are not my own.

I court the lady wisdom, through the wilderness inside,

but the mind may be a prism, and the truth a shaft of light.

But one thing’s fairly certain: now I’ve placed my life for sale,

for a glance behind the curtain, for a glimpse beneath the veil.

Calliope, Calliope, reach deep into my memory:

recount the paths I’ve wandered to the places I have gone.

Calliope, Calliope, envelop me, inspire me,

enrapture me with mercury—breathe fire through my song.