The Big Muddy Mountain

Once there were two grunts who were marching somewhere because they wanted to be warriors. There was a whole column of grunts marching this day, but these two were at the very back. They were marching up-hill and they had big heavy packs.

One grunt tried to wipe sweat from his eyes but just got more sweat in them.
"This sucks." He said.
"Things will get better," said the second grunt. "You'll see. When I look up ahead I think we are close to the top, and soon the path will level out. We just have to be strong for another five minutes."

The two grunts began to march harder and put pep into their step. As they neared the top they smiled and began to pass other grunts. They were Positive.

Then they reached the top of the ridge, and it was not the top at all. The path turned and went straight up the hill again. The two grunts began to march very slowly now and did not feel so strong any more. It would take more than five minutes.

Then it started to rain.The grunts got cold and the red clay path turned slick and slippery. The first grunt slipped and fell down, and was all orange colored by the time the other grunt was able to help him up.
"This sucks." said the first grunt. "The path is still going up the hill, and now we have to be careful not fall down in this slippery mud."
"Things will get better," said the second grunt. "don't worry. I can hear a big river up ahead and it will be swollen with rain. When we reach the river bank, the officers will have to stop and let us rest until the storm is over. All this rain is a good thing."

The two grunts marched fast again, and they smiled when they saw that the rain came down in blinding sheets. They were feeling Positive again.

Then they reached the river. It was swollen and fast, but somehow the officers had crossed it and wanted everybody else to cross it too. The water came up to their chests, and they had to hold their rifles above their heads.

Now the two grunts walked slower than ever. The column began to march through a thick forest, and even though they were at the back somehow there were lots of thorns and vines that popped up in their way and grabbed at them.

"I don't think I can go much further," said the first grunt. "this trail keeps getting harder and harder."
"Things will get better," said the second grunt. "Trust me. We can't see how close we are because there are trees blocking our view, but when we turn the bend I see the trees open up and then we will see how the path gets easier."

The grunts hurried along towards the open area and tried very hard to be just a little bit positive.

Then they reached the open area and looked: The trail did not get better. The trail went down a little bit, but then went straight up a huge muddy mountain that seemed to block out the rainy sky. Even though it was mostly covered in big boulders and thick forests, the grunts could see that the path would cross not one, but two rivers. And when they could see the trail it was a bright orange-red mud that would be slippery and cold. They did not feel positive at all.

An officer noticed the two grunts and came to yell at them, but instead of hurrying back onto the trail they walked slowly towards him with their shoulders slumped. "We want to go home." said the first grunt.
"We thought we could be warriors," continued the second, "but instead we are weak and slow and feel nothing but disappointment after disappointment. You had better replace us with strong fast men who like to march up muddy mountains."

"What's this?" asked the officer. "You feel disappointment? That means you live in a real, dangerous world where things don't live up to your best hopes. That's why we need warriors. And weak and slow? That means you are finally pushing yourselves harder than you ever did before."

The grunts did not say anything.
"Now you will march up that trail with your column," ordered the officer. "and you will not think of the end, or how good or bad things are. You will not wonder how much farther you can go or when you will stop. You will march because you are strong and your hearts are steadfast and because you will be warriors."

Then the two grunts did as they were told. They did not think about how tired their legs were, or make up stories about how they were going to stop soon. They did not imagine how many more turns the path would take, or try to count how far they had come.

There were more than two rivers to cross, but they did not think about this at all. They did not wonder when their legs would get too heavy to lift or when the officers would let them rest. The path got steeper and steeper and their legs burned with pain and their breath grew ragged in their throats, but they did not wonder when the mountain would stop rising in front of them. They no longer thought about the future or fantasized about the past.

And then suddenly, they were at the top. The column was allowed to drop packs and rest. Grunts sank onto their packs in exhaustion, but the two who had been at the back walked to the edge of the top and looked to see what was ahead.

Before them, the path wound down the mountainside, through rivers and boulders and up and down lesser ridges. Then it sank down into a deep dark forest and finally entered a wide flat valley where a town full of strange people was gathered. The road went straight through the town and back up more foothills until it disappeared over a cleft in two mountains into the blue lands beyond.

But the grunts did not care. Things were going to get better, because they were strong and stubborn, and they were going to be warriors.



  

Who are you

Who are you,
When your last bottle is emptied
When your last fan goes home
When the stage lights dim
And no one calls the phone

Why do you,
When the rain won't fall
When you've got no hope
When your dreams are exposed
as hollow jokes

Where are you
When its the same old gutter
And the same old shame
And the same old hustlers
calling your name

I hope at last you're on empty
And I hope at last you're broke
I hope at last you're out of gas
And you know your drugs won't work

It's only at the bottom
You can really see where you are
That's why there's a floor on the world
to catch you when you fall

It's not about climbing back up
and showing the world your scars
You gotta start filling with a better gas
if you don't wanna be back in twelve hours

You've been running on fumes
about Your Hopes and Demands like a will
Stop trying to barter your precious life
and enjoy it as the gift it is still

You don't have to prove that you're Good
You're not, and you're precious to me
I've got no list for the cheap and the gold
You're all the same quality

Quit medicating your pain
with a thousand snake oil lies
Just give it to me and see where you are
when I lift the fog from your eyes

I know you're in a dry and weary place
no matter how you dress it up
This desert was always here
and I can tell you it stretches as far as you fear
but through me you'll find the way out.

So trust me if you dare
and believe against your eyes
You'll see who you are and where
When you give to me your why

Some jumbled prose

While I was cleaning up an apartment that I (incorrectly) believed I had been invited to tidy, I came across some roughly folded papers that had formed a sort of sedimentary layer at the bottom of a bag. After I managed to excavate the area and unfold the badly damaged bits of papers (mostly receipts, bills, and warning letters from an institution) I discovered that somebody had written bits of poems on them in a fading blue ink. Unfortunately, the owners of the apartment returned before I could properly transcribe them, and I was evicted - in all fairness quite politely- from the premises.


I was young and foolish when the road first called to me
I thought if I ran fast enough I could glimpse eternity,
just beyond the horizon as far as the eye can see
The setting sun and the rising road beckoned dreamily.

The wind has wandered far tonight,
and it must rest 'neath twinkling stars

the wind is weary, worn and spent
and settles sweet its beating heart.

The moon is old and wise and wary
of the vows it hears youths swear
for Love is ancient, strong and doughty,
and cannot be summoned by empty air.

The wind breathes hard as it runs its race:
a sprint above the world around
but keeps up straight its determined face
towards the end - if it can be found.

I am young and foolish still and the road still calls to me
though where I go I do not know for it bends most dreadfully
My favorite tales are grim to read where the end is hard to see
I only hope this winding road will one day set me free.

The Man in the Whirlwind

The Man in the Whirlwind

Out where it's flat I see a man walking
No trees grow on the plains
The grasses bow for a storm is brewing
The winds ride wild with the rain

The sky grows black though the sun's still shining
the clouds speak death for the man
His path is long and the day is winding
The winds run free in this land

Lightning cracks but the rain won't pour
Fires have swept o'er these lands
The man won't flinch though the heavens roar:
He's holding a bird in his hand.

A black-eyed sparrow in the palm of his hand
He'll see her safe and sound
With the wind and the fire he understands
There's death for a bird on the ground

The dust and the sand are stinging his face
He cups his hand to his chest
He leans as he walks and quickens his pace
In his house the man may find rest

The fires come racing over the plains
they dance to devour the land
But the whirlwind leaps and blows them away
the man is the wind's oldest friend

The fires burn past save for a small patch of grass
There's a man in the heart of the storm
creatures too small to have survived that at all-
They're alive around the man in the storm
 


No tree grows where that man goes, for the wind and the fire are strong,
But still he walks with his timid flock, though his road be dark and long.
 



 
 
 

Where I belong

Where I belong

Late one night, while gazing at stars

that blazed like eyes of ancient fire

And trembling ever so slight

from wintry cold and lost desire,

I turned my face up towards that swathe of light,

and asked my King if I would find

A place where I might rest at last.

For not in the citied coast do I find comfort, 

not in its smells, or idols that steal the mind away

from any world beyond its cramped and shrinking borders, no. 

There men dream of better days, like swine in a pen they cramp and lie,

fancying far off exploits of their wild kin until the grimy metal truck arrives,

and they die. 

"I am an animal with no wood," I cry, "save a pleasant city park! 

I rushed from edge to edge and saw

the neighborhood rise up like walls, and it is growing dark."

'Be still,' I heard my Captain whisper,

'And know that you belong with me.

'In this moment cease your shaking and feel at last some certainty.'

'A wanderer I made you, a beast that shies from common roads,

'Blessed or cursed to see no farther than the bend beyond your nose.'

'Listen for my heartbeat child, and find comfort in that endless song,

On any sojourn you are no stranger, 

For by my side is where you belong.