Parells in Meditation

The trees are nervous.

They whisper woven worries,
Wild wind, pass us by...

"I'm a sputtering flame hissing in the rain. I'll disappear any moment. That's why I'm here."

Storms. Elemental child.

"If you don't fear fire, hold me tight. You'll be burned and extinguish my light."

Lightning. Find me on the mountain's peak. Find me tumbling in the crash of the surf.

"Pain mingled pleasure and a darker night."

High wind. I'll climb the tallest tree. Hang on tight, but keep one hand free. Try to fling me out, buck and swing, I'll laugh and scream, the joy is in the terror. A wild ride with ninety feet to reconsider and regret.

"A fox that runs wild, snaps at your touch. Dreams, hopes, ambitions, delusions."

Deluge. Chase me in the tall grass. Barefoot at breakneck speed, rain streaming down my face and chest.

"Most of all wanting to be loved, wanting to be tamed."

Flash flood. Find me in the angry furry. I dive in. Pulled under, tossed like a leaf, smiling as I choke for air.

"To know the collar of ownership and dependence. Desperate to feel it circle my neck."

Life as a cigarette: Rip off the filter and smoke it fast.
The rules of the road: Drive faster, turn harder, no seat belts permitted.
Pavement surfing: somersault and slide. Rush back in line for another ride.

"Yet the terrible transformation. Another docile dog?"

I see you watching,
You think my words are for you?
Perhaps, in a way...

Running in Place

Kansas, Summer '06, Afternoon

Some days are for rambling.

My feet lead me out into the fields away from anything that wreaks of human touch. Past the roads and houses, over fences and walking trails, I tread. Carefully I pick my steps. I refuse to settle for the man-made peace of parks.

I pick my steps carefully, no wild flowers will bend under my weight.

In my mind I'm running desperately. Looking for a place to call my own, somewhere I can silence the accusers which have taken up residence like malicious hitchhikers in my head with the more potent silence of quiet and unaffected life; that is, life devoid of the thoughts and whispers which occupy the human existence.

Stopping now. The sleeping brook speaks, but its unconscious words are peacefully happy. Content. What a concept.

A nervous frog eyes me suspiciously. I smile disarmingly, "Don't worry, I have no desire to disturb," despite my effort at reassurance, the frog dives for the cool safety of the dark waters.

There's a flash of lethal power in the depths of the pool. Some terrible struggle beneath the water's roiling surface. A long, black whip slices out of the water with horrible strength and speed and disappears again.

Then the combatants rise. The snake has its jaws locked on the struggling creature. They thrash and roll, splashing angry water. I'm mesmerized with horror. And then the violence is diminishing. The snake's grip on the frog's head is a death trap. His fight for life grows weaker; his flailing kicks coming with less and less frequency. Hope and strength are fading fast. My lungs are burning. I try to scream my despair. Can't. Realize I've been holding my breath. I gasp and choke, breaking the iron grip on my throat. I want to throw up.

The frog is finally still. Hopeless or dead. It's the same thing.

The snake sinks down with its prey.

I sit absolutely still. And what was I thinking? That I could somehow run faster than the curse that rides me? Thought I could leave my Midas touch behind me? That life's insanity resided somewhere outside of me?

I can't escape humanity because I am human. I will carry the toxin of my existence where ever I roam. And it will drift and snake across the ground to poison anything within my reach.

Last Chapter?

The Wasteland, Winter, Now

It was a fight. It seems over now.

Despite the unbearably cold, the ground is pitted with oozing mud and dark puddles to the horizon. Drifting smoke obscures the waning sun. But night is closing fast with increasing cold and blackness.

A figure lies prostrate on the ground. Indistinguishable from the wasted terrain. No other sign of life, if he counts as that. He couldn't be alive.

He is flat on his back, every inch of his body covered in stinking slime. Only the blood on his chest, arms, and face breaks the overwhelming gray of the field. His right arm is extended awkwardly toward a sword. It lies shattered and beyond his clenched hand.

I don't want to die. But I know I am. I can't remember the fight. Who or what or why. Everything so obscured. My brain defying my attempts at recollection. But I've never felt so defeated. So utterly broken and lost.

Trying to breath. Every smoke-filled breath an agony. My vision narrowing. Blood in my mouth. Blood in my throat. Why am I not dead yet?

I feel, more than see, the presence. Someone is standing over me. Trying to focus my vision, blood trickling into my eyes making it an impossible and painful task. I can't tell if it's a man or woman, but I can sense the devastating beauty. And make out the absurdly clean, white clothing. Like an unexpected streak of lightning at the darkest hour of night. I feel unbearable shame. I wish the mud would swallow me down into its filth.

You will not die. Stand up. Follow me.


But I can't. I can't. And I'm so miserable. For God's sake, I'm dying. Who is this? Can't they understand? I'm dying.

Yes. You can. Look at me. If you won't stand, then crawl. Follow me.

And I do believe. And am suddenly sure that life lies in dragging myself after the muddy footprints of this voice. And yet, here I lie, content to nurse my pain and feel death seeping into my bones like a curling mist. And I don't even understand why. Too humiliated to follow this beacon of perfect light and beauty in my worthless condition? Or too proud to reach my hand up for help and life?

But please don't leave me. Don't walk away. Give me more time. Or perhaps take away my wayward willfulness and save me despite myself.

I lie motionless. I don't want to die. But I know I am.

I don't dare open my eyes. Equally afraid to see utter darkness or His pure light.