Goodbye My Love

Ah, to think that soon she will be but a memory,

A memory as fleeting as time itself.

I will keep her on the top shelf

With the best of them.

And years from now I will wake

From a dream of her,

And, oh, how my heart will ache.

I do not fight other men

I do not fight other men

For pride, or glory, or power.

I do not seek to defend

That which I possess, except this,

And this alone: Hope.

Hope for peace, and hope for love.

May God carry me home.

A Short Essay on Wisdom

I am a child at heart. For the longest time, I have thought this to be my greatest weakness. And perhaps, in some ways, it is. But then I consider, perhaps there is a way to make one’s greatest weakness one’s greatest strength. When a weakness is first identified, one is apt to pick at it like a sore, for it has inevitably been the cause of great pain and suffering. When a weakness goes unidentified for a long time it naturally has been the source of great pain. But if one can identify the weakness for what it is, one can begin to let the damage done on its account heal. And after it heals, though there may be a visible scar, one can begin to present it in such a way that it becomes one’s most identifiable feature. In other words, it becomes something singular and beautiful.

I have always fallen in love way too easily. I have always been quick to identify beauty, and once I have identified it, I have wanted to possess it. This desire to possess is a very primitive and very childlike quality. But only a fool would consider it possible to possess beauty—to possess anything, for that matter, other than himself. Certainly, I have been a fool, more often than not. But the anguish that I feel in not being able to possess beauty I now know should never be compounded with the self-hatred rooted in the idea that there is something wrong with me for not being able to possess beauty. In other words, I have come to the moral understanding that beauty is something far too precious to be possessed, that to do so would mean destroying it.

In learning this lesson—that I cannot possess beauty without destroying it—I have discovered one joyous, immutable fact: I have it within me the power to create beauty. And I do not simply mean art. I can create beauty by looking at the trees, by smiling at the passersby, by holding a smooth stone in my hand. In other words, life itself is beautiful. And just as we cannot possess beauty, we cannot possess life. We can only live life, we can only create beauty. Unfortunately, so many come to destroy life, and destroy beauty in turn. And why? Because they have been deceived by the notion that they can possess these things. They have succumbed to the notion that they can make perfection of their lives by ending them, and failed to see the notion that each moment is perfection, is beautiful, and therefore, ungraspable.

A rose dies slowly, one petal at a time. But it’s act of dying is beautiful, and most beautiful when it happens slowly. When a man plucks a rose, he denies this beauty—he destroys it along with the rose’s life. And not only this, he denies the rest of the world the chance to behold the beauty of its slow death. It takes wisdom to allow anyone, or anything, to die according to its own nature, with the moral understanding that even pain is a reflection of God’s own will.

The part of ourselves which we most admire is naturally the part which we most desire to present to the rest of the world. But it turns out, sometimes the part of ourselves which we most admire is not our most admirable part. We mistake cruelty for good humor, brashness for courage, callousness for honesty. Therefore, wisdom is the understanding of what our true best self actually is, and projecting it upon the world. It is, in a word, innocence. To live actively, with all the character of maturity, while maintaining the innocence of a child.

The Fall of A Tyrant

When a tyrant falls his vitriol redoubles,

Instilling fear and rage into those who follow him.

Blindly he leads them all to their destruction

In the name of “victory” and “victory” alone.

Hatred is the fuel that drives them,

And hatred the poison that blinds them

To any possibility for peace.

Because they worship nothing but death,

Death follows them wherever they go.

But listen closely and you will hear

Their cries are growing fainter all the time.

A tyrant’s end is slow but certain—

Certain as the death they worship.

Certain as the death they fear.

The Ego of the Artist

Generally, every artist thinks he is the greatest artist in the world. But even the best artists, when at their lowest points, would make the claim that they aren't really even artists at all, but just imposters. The reality is, it is just when the artist feels that he is an imposter that he is most susceptible to his muse. It is almost as if the muse comes to the artist not only for the sake of his art, but also to lift his ego such that life becomes bearable again. The ego and the muse, like impassioned lovers, are in a constant push-pull relationship that results in the birth of art, and the decay of the artist.

The Value of Love

I let the longing fill me
That my tears might be set free.
The rose wakens from its shadowy sleep
And out from the veil of time,
You arrive, naked, at my bedside.
Torn from my ungraspable dreams, I waken
Into a world that has no refuge
Except within your embrace.
And as the rose opens to the sun
So my soul opens beneath your smiling face.
As the sun gives the gift of life to the Earth,
So your kiss gives me life
And all I am worth.

Excerpt from Novel

        He found James in the piano room, playing. He was playing beautifully—soulfully, even—very unlike how he would have imagined a drummer would play. It was a somber and sweet tune, vaguely familiar. James looked up at David as he played and nodded. David sat down in a comfortable arm chair in the corner and listened to him play. He let himself forget what had happened with Lucy and sank into the music. It brought lurid memories to the surface of his mind. All of the girls and women he had ever loved appeared before him—their figures seemed to dance in a ring of fire in front of him. Some of them glared at him coldly, others had tears in their eyes and looked at him longingly. All of them danced through the fire that was his own soulful desire. And it was Lucy who played the most prominent role. Her eyes were so dark, so full of mystery, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t gage what was going on behind them. There were other memories, too—vague memories of his parents when he was young. Their faces were so fresh and expressive, and full of vitality. They looked upon him with tenderness and awe. It was as if he was a newborn child again, and everything was vibrant and new, and the world seemed boundless and so did the possibilities of life. Colors bounded off one another in an ecstatic, rapturous dance. It was all in the music—the memories, the colors, the impassioned feelings that culminated in euphoria. David listened, but he had the sense that it wasn’t really him listening at all. Whatever “he” was had gone, and the collective soul of existence had taken its place. James finished playing, and, in a moment of pensiveness, stared at the keys, as if completely bewildered and amazed by what had just occurred.

Excerpt from Novel

 Later, while he was at a group, David was called out to meet with Lucy’s social worker. They went into a small meeting room, and David sat across from the social worker. She was a plump, attractive woman in her mid-thirties, with long black hair tied up in the back and big, dark eyes that looked out kindly and childlike beneath her curled eyelashes. She was dressed in black jeans and a black button-down shirt that was unbuttoned just enough to show some of her ample cleavage. She sat in a large leather desk chair, and David sat in an old vinyl armchair. She smiled at him with a serious, if not congenial air, and leaned forward in her chair with her hands folded in her lap. Her lips were painted bright red, and her face was pale and her cheeks were full. “I’d like to talk to you about Lucy,” she said in a low voice. David’s heart seemed to shoot up through his throat. “She told me that you have been a good friend to her. But, she has made it clear to me that she only wants to be friends, and nothing more. I think it’s best that you keep a distance from her, and not pursue her anymore.”

David was crushed. He felt anger rising up in himself, and he wanted to tell the social worker that it had been Lucy who had instigated things, and that it was her boyfriend who was manipulating her and making her upset. But he did not say these things. Instead, he let the pain sink into the depths of his heart. Tears formed in his eyes, but he wouldn’t let them fall. He swallowed his pride.

“I understand,” he said. “I won’t bother her anymore.”

The social worker smiled. “Thank you,” she said. “But please don’t take this the wrong way. She wants to be your friend. But that’s the limit.”

“Yes,” said David. “Fine. I can be her friend.” He said it but he didn’t mean it. Inwardly, he was already scathing Lucy. He wanted revenge, even if he knew that it wasn’t her fault that all of this had happened. It was her boyfriend. 

“I’m glad you accept this,” said the social worker. “Patients aren’t really allowed to have romantic attachments in the hospital anyway. I’m sure you know that.”

“I do,” said David.

“Well, again, thank you. You can go back to your group now.”

David got up and left the room, but he didn’t go back to the group. Instead, he turned down the hallway that led to his room. On the way, he thought he could hear the sound of sobbing coming from Lucy’s room. He stopped to listen. It was a gentle sobbing. The kind of sobbing that comes when one is trying to muffle the sound for fear of being overheard. When he heard this sound, he thought to himself that Lucy hadn’t really meant what she had told the social worker, that she must really love him after all. Hope filled him once again, even as tears filled his eyes from the sound of Lucy crying. He went into his room, fell to his knees beside his bed, and began to pray. “Lord,” he said. “I can’t give up on her. I know she really cares for me, and I won’t let her be the victim of an abuser. But what can I do?” Then he heard a voice, like an echo, in the back of his mind. It said: “Write her a letter.”

The Lone Cricket's Song

I listen long and listen low

for the sound of the cricket outside my window.

It sounds like three tiny stars

falling on water--softly, softly.

What a gentle, sweet, and subtle song!

What could be a more perfect way

to slip off to sleep at the end of day

than to listen to this lone cricket's song

that keeps the slow and steady pace of slumber

through the night until the break of dawn?

Not an Elegy

I’d write an elegy, but no one

Close to me has died. 

I look inside at my heart.

It is very much alive.

It is my mind that deceives me

Into feeling otherwise.

Like a gravedigger that hears rumors of a dying man

And digs his grave preemptively,

So my mind digs into the heart

And tricks my flesh into a constant fear.

And yet, the tides of my soul ebb and flow.

The sun rises, and I look upon the many splendors

Of the world. The gravedigger rests upon 

His shovel and catches his breath

And all the sorrows I have known

Are blown away by a sweet gust of morning wind.

Bible Stories Revisited

I.

And God said: “Let there be light.”
And there was light, and it was good.

Then someone said: “Yo!
How ‘bout a little fucking privacy!”

And God turned out the light,

And it was good.

It was damn good.

 

II.

Abraham took his son Isaac to Mount Moriah

To sacrifice him to God,

But an angel came down and said,

“Nah. Just cut off his foreskin.”

 

III.

Daniel was cast into the lion’s den,

So he whipped out a fat sack

And smoked those mother fuckers up.

 

IV.

Job was a blameless man

‘Till God took everything away from him.

Then he took a shotgun up to Heaven

And busted a cap in God’s ass.

Slaves

Late at night, I sat in my bed
Dreaming of a woman I could not have
When, as if a thunderbolt had struck my brain,
A madman in the street shouted:
We're all a bunch of fucking slaves!
I know the man well.
I was once him and he was once me.
The bells tolled.

None of us are free. 

Grave of a Minor Poet

Roaming eyeless amongst the graves,

Time’s serpent serenades the dead

With a song so sibilant

It saturates the silence with dread.

The moon pounds against the walls

Of its close-quartered tomb, demanding

To be blessed. (With its halo-corona,

It is already a saint.)

An enigmatic prophecy is being written in the stars.
The serpent stops and winds itself

Around a gravestone, upon which is written

No name, and no date. Only an epitaph

That reads: “He lived.”

The Mountain in Her Eyes

There is a mountain in her eyes

That I am afraid to climb.

Running down is a river I drink from

That tastes like tears.

I hear a flute playing at the summit

As if calling me near.

But every time I begin to climb,

I am disabled by doubt and fear.

To climb is to emote the truth.

Take the first step with humility.
She will greet you with a song.

Essay on (the Lack of) Free Will

Free will does not really exist. If it did then every desire we had would be able to be actualized. If I were to say, “I want to fly to Sirius,” according to the premise that free will exists, I would be able to do so right then and there. We are bound by natural laws that constrict our will such that we do only what we are bound to do at any given point in time. There are certainly windows in which we are able to do what we want, but I would say those windows are actually the reward we receive for following the laws, and may be more apt to be a product of what one might call “fate” than free will.

            There are an infinite number of factors which drive us to make the choices we make, and only an infinitesimal portion of those factors relate to desire (unless you are talking about the desire to survive). If there really was such a thing as free will, then no one would feel bound by anything, no one would suffer, and then what would life be like? It would be chaos. Even before we can think, we are bound by the laws of nature. From our very conception, our genetic makeup is set beyond our control, as is our environment, so where does that leave room for free will? Every instant that we are alive, we are absorbing information. This information is interpreted in a way that is predetermined by the information we received in moments prior, according to our own predispositions and genetic makeup. As soon as we are conceived, we are set on a trajectory that we have absolutely no knowledge of and no control over. To say that we have free will is like saying that magic is real, that we have the power to warp nature according to our own desires. But it simply is not so. Everything is predetermined, or rather, everything is determined beyond what one might call “will.”

            It is true that at any given instant there are an infinitude of choices one can make. But one will always make the choice that reflects their genetics and their prior experiences with their environment, whether it be the “right” choice or the “wrong” choice. The fact is, there is no “choice” at all.

            For instance, this essay—I had no choice but to set out to write it, and I will explain what I mean. I live in a group home, and the house manager is a young, attractive female whom I have developed feelings for (certainly I didn’t choose to develop feelings for her, but that is a whole other matter altogether). Recently, due to the COVID-19 virus (which I also have no control over), instead of the usual policy where the residents are required to be out of the house from 10 to 2, we have been holding groups in the house from 10 to 12. Today, Missy, the house manager, had an appointment with Gerty, the director of the program, and therefore she left us to our own devices. Normally, she assigns us an activity to do during the times which she goes to these meetings, but today she is allowing us to do “whatever we want.” I was outside smoking a cigarette when she made this announcement, so when I came back in, she told me that I could either, A. write a syllabus for a group for the following week B. do an online class or, C. “do nothing.” And then she said, “because, you know, you have free will.” “I didn’t realize,” I replied. And then she said, “It’s nice to be reminded of that, isn’t it?”

            Now, it should be stated that yesterday, I made a flirtatious remark to Missy. This fact impacted the way I initially interpreted her comment about free will. I thought to myself, “She wants me to act on my desire.” But then I remembered the fact that she had already told me that there would be no relationship between us, so my interpretation changed into: “She wants me to stop making flirtatious remarks to her.” But then I was finally resigned to the fact that I had no idea what her remark was inferring, and that, actually, it probably wasn’t inferring anything at all, but was just actually, like most things, a meaningless turn of a phrase. But because of who I am—because of my genetic makeup and my past experiences—I could not come to terms with the fact that it was an empty phrase and that it had no deeper meaning. And it was this unfulfilled desire to understand—this inability to will myself to understand—that drove me to think, “There is no such thing as free will, and I must set out to prove it.” Naturally, I have proven nothing, but that fact altogether seems to support my claim all the more. If I had free will, I would be able to prove that free will does not exist, for that is what I set out to do. But have I done it? Have I accomplished this monumental feat, when so many writers in the past have set out such wonderful arguments in favor of the existence of free will? Probably not, and thus, I prove my point. There is no such thing as free will, because if there was, I would come off as an omnipotent being and my claim would seem unobjectionable, but I am not an omnipotent being and my claim is not unobjectionable. And even if I were wrong, and I do come across that way, where is your own free will? Are you not my captive, forced to believe as I do?

            As I have shown, the factors that led me to write this essay were all beyond my control. Is it not the same for the case of you reading this essay? Perhaps you have long since stopped reading it. Perhaps it came off as paltry and ill-founded. But why did you think that? Perhaps your IQ is higher than mine. Perhaps you have had experiences that have led you to firmly believe in the existence of free-will. Perhaps you simply don’t like me or my style of writing. But are any of these factors under your control? No, and that is because free will does not exist.

            Time is progressing at a steady rate, and space is limited. I cannot travel to Sirius because time has not progressed enough for the technology that would allow me to get to Sirius to be developed. And, I cannot prove that free will does not exist because there is a limited amount of space in my brain for information that might support my claim. These two factors, the steady progression of time, and the limits of space, are the other factors that support my claim. And as genetics and environmental conditions determine what a person will and will not do in any given point, time and space determine what a person can and cannot do. They are the factors that determine one’s genetics and one’s environment. Both forms are forms of law, and within their four-cornered structure, we as individuals, as human beings, are bound. One may certainly bang one’s head against the wall of this structure, but that will lead only to insanity. And I would say that for some, insanity is indeed inevitable, as all things are inevitable. Some would also say that free will is an alternative to divine intervention. I would say that, divine intervention and free will are actually two sides of the same coin. For if we truly have free will, that would mean that we have the power to transcend natural law, which would make us divine. But if you study the human body—including the brain—you will see that we are anything but divine. We have a limited number of cells, and therefore are limited in our potential. Even the universe has a limited number of cells, and therefore is limited. It is easy for one to quibble with the idea that we have no free will, and say that I am a defeatist and a cynic. But that fact has already been proven to me thousands of times. The question is, will I change? It is certainly a possibility, for who am I to say whether the events of my future coincident with my genetic makeup won’t change me into something other than a cynic and self-defeatist? Anything is possible. I certainly won’t argue that.

            But I won’t make it to Sirius. And chances are I won’t ever form a relationship with my house manager, either. And because the majority of desires on my long list of desires won’t be realized, I am content to think that it has nothing to do with will, and completely to do with reality, that reality being one without free will, a reality of laws that constrict our will and sometimes open up a window of fate.

Suites

Speculative moon
With its eye on the river.
So many stars treading water.
Long silver canoe
Rupturing time,
Rupturing space.
Speculative moon
With its eye on the river.

             *

Ocean of glory,
What is your nature?
"Ask the moon.
She is my master."
Moon! Oh moon!
What is the nature of the Ocean of Glory?
"To serve me."
The tide runs in,
The tide runs out.

            *

Invidious shadow
Of the ancient palm.
Is that blood leaking from the ground?
The storm-shattered country permits no exile.
The strange funk of this southern clay.

            *

Vestibule of light.
Mad woman!
She dances the tarantella.
Who is she?
Where did she come from?
Full moon shows through
Pale in the blue sky.
"We're expecting more of her kind."

2 Haiku

Nectar for my soul:
The sight of bumble bees
Collecting nectar.

The Wrath of the Father

The wrath of the father latches on to one’s spine and never lets go. One senses its presence in ones’ shadow, it deems one unworthy of every undertaking, shuns one like a road block from seeing one’s true potential, makes a sacrifice of ones’ life entire, as if, wherever one travels, whatever one dreams, one is bound by the terrible roots of memory to that moment when, with gnashed teeth and fiery eyes, your father took your will and smashed it to bits before your weeping eyes. And yet your father is now old and soft-hearted, and all he wants to do is put his hand on your back. When he does, you feel the wrath flowing painfully down your spine.

Locking Eyes

To look into the eyes of a stranger on the street, or, even one’s neighbor’s whom one has never spoken to before, is a foolish, dangerous endeavor that leaves one breathless and consumed by fear. You reach down deep into your self, search for justification and meaning, but find only emptiness, while the eyes of the stranger seem to be pregnant with meaning and force, as if the entire world were inflicting itself upon you, filling your lungs with an overabundance of air, such that you cannot exhale or inhale; you feel that you should say something, but intense fear and compunction keeps you from doing so. It is like being lost in the middle of a giant labyrinth—the land around you is endless and flat, the wind blows through the tall grass—and coming to the conclusion that you will die there alone beneath the dark cloudy skies, even as you are being watched, but by whom? You can never say. For the eyes you are looking into are a stranger’s eyes, and they very well might be the eyes of a dead man, or a spirit, or a god walking upon the earth. In any event, you quickly look away, and punish yourself with shameful thoughts for the rest of the day.

Scene 1 of Play

ZACH is in his early thirties. He is not unattractive, but overweight, and melancholy-looking.

He lives alone in a crumby apartment which he rarely leaves—just for food, psychiatry appointments, and to the library. He talks to himself, puts himself down when alone. When among people, he thinks everyone is talking him down.

Scene: Psychiatrist’s office. Dr. RITA Roberson, attractive, in early forties, sits across from ZACH.

Rita and Zach sit in silence for a spell.

Rita: Have you been doing your walks still?

Zach: No.

Rita: Why not?

Zach: It’s like torture.

Rita: The paranoia?

Zach: If you want to call it that.

Rita: Well, what would you call it?

Zach: Torture.

Rita: What have they been saying recently?

Zach: The voices? Just the same things, only with different word choices.

Rita: Like?

Zach: They say…that I’m ugly, and I should be put away.

Rita: Put away?

Zach: Yes, put away. As opposed to “sent to the loony bin,” which I suppose is an improvement.

(Rita laughs)

Rita: What about the positive affirmations? Have you been trying those?

Zach: I do try.

Rita: Want to try now?

Zach: No. (Pause) I am ugly, you know.

Rita: Why do you say that?

Zach: Isn’t it obvious?

Rita: No.

Zach: You’re going to sit there and say that I am not ugly?

Rita: Yes, and I’ll mean it, too. You are not ugly. But it doesn’t matter what I think. It’s what you think that matters. Or, rather, it’s what you tell yourself that matters.

Zach (Pensively): It’s funny…

Rita: What?

Zach: I just had a thought. It’s ridiculous…

Rita: Tell me.

Zach: Well, I thought, what if it were possible for an ugly person to will himself into becoming good looking?

Rita: That’s interesting. Tell me more.

Zach: Well, let’s say I were to tell myself a hundred times a day that I was handsome, maybe I would start positioning my facial muscles in such a way that…oh, it’s ridiculous!

Rita: No! It’s a very interesting, very good idea!

Zach: You think so?

Rita: I do! You should try it.

Zach: Oh, so you do think I am ugly.

Rita (annoyed): No. I don’t. But I think everyone has the potential to be ugly, if they think they are ugly, and everyone has the potential to be beautiful, if they think they are.

Zach: It is an interesting concept.

Rita: I told you, you have the mind of a great scientist.

Zach: Hah! That’s a joke.

Rita: Well I think you should try this out. As an experiment of sorts.

Zach: It is interesting. Though, isn’t it the same thing as a person with an IQ of 70 telling himself that he is a genius?

Rita: Why can’t a person with an IQ of 70 be a genius?

Zach: Hmph. I see your point. I guess Mugsy Bogues managed to play in the NBA.

Rita: I never heard of him.

Zach: Not important. Maybe I will give it a shot.

Rita: You should! What do you have to lose?

Zach: My sanity, maybe.

Rita (laughing): Telling yourself you are handsome won’t make you insane.

Zach (softly): Maybe only if I believe it.

Rita: What was that?

Zach: Nothing.

Rita looks at him importunately.

Zach: I said, “Maybe only if I believe it.”

Rita: So believing yourself to be handsome would make you insane?

Zach: Maybe not insane. Just ignorant.

Rita: What if you are really ignorant for thinking you’re ugly, though?

Zach: Point taken.

Rita: The fact is, it doesn’t matter what everyone else thinks. Don’t you know that?

Zach: It’s something they tried to teach me in kindergarten, I think. Had I been graded on it I would have failed.

Rita (laughs): Well now’s your chance to earn a passing grade.

(Pause)

Zach: OK. I will do it. A hundred times a day.

Rita: Great! What are you going to say?

Zach: I am a handsome man.

Rita: Good! And when will you say it?

Zach: Whenever I can. That is, whenever I can get away with it without coming across as a complete lunatic.

Rita (laughing): OK. Great. Well, our time is up. I’ll see you next week?

Zach: Sure.

Rita: And you’ll let me know how your experiment goes?

Zach nods.

Rita: OK. Bye Zach! I’m excited about this!

Zach leaves. Rita is radiant. She begins writing notes in her computer jovially.

Space Dust

Perhaps, before the Big Bang, there was some matter which was so far afield that it did not condense into the singularity—a piece of dust perhaps that was floating in the far reaches of the universe. And perhaps this little piece of space dust is still floating, unchanged since before the “beginning.” Perhaps it is about to land in my tea, this incomparably ancient piece of matter, completely unaware that I am about to take a drink, and transmute it into a form that for trillions of eons, it has never taken.

On Ideals

A nation cannot have ideals. Only people can have ideals. The ideal that all men are created equal is not a "national ideal." It was an ideal shared by a particular group of men at a particular point in history. After centuries have passed, it is up to us as individuals to interpret this statement as either a valid principle, or a flawed one, and to decide whether it agrees or conflicts with our own ideals, whatever they might be. But we should not base our interpretation of the statement on the qualities and character of the men who wrote it, but rather the validity and accuracy of the words themselves. Stalin himself is famous for saying, "You cannot make a revolution with silk gloves." Is this statement any less true on account of what we know of Stalin's character? Not in the least. Look to the words themselves if you want the truth. While educating one's self, one must forget politics. Politics comes later, and is actually very arbitrary when considering the overall course of human values and morality. If one finds himself on the wrong side of history, at least he may absolve himself in God's eyes by holding to a moral and ethical code. In other words, if he attempts to do no harm, he is justified no matter what his political beliefs are. Indeed, there have been many men who have been on the "right" side of history who have done a great deal of harm. For example, the man who wrote the quote, "All men are created equal"--Thomas Jefferson--was in fact a great hypocrite, for he owned many slaves. Judge the words for the words, and the man for the man, rather than the man for the words and the words for the man. It is not easy, but it is the only just approach to morality that there is.

A Drunkard

A drunkard swaying like a tree in the wind
Asked me for change.
"What kind of change are you asking for?"
I said. "The kind that comes only with time
Or the kind that comes in the form of metal?"
"You are a confusing BASTARD!" he spat.
"My guess is," I said, "you are hoping for the latter."

An Incident With a Vagrant

Late one night, as often seems to be the case, I had run out of cigarettes and—out of compulsion, not choice—I walked the few blocks from my apartment to the convenience store to buy a new pack. Standing outside the store, and greeting me as I passed, was an old vagrant I had come to be acquainted with somehow. It isn’t necessary to explain how I became acquainted with the vagrant. Suffice it to say that I am friendly by nature, and open-minded. I said hello to the vagrant and went into the store, where I purchased a pack of cool Pall Malls, the cheapest brand they had. On my way out, again the vagrant greeted me. It seemed like he wanted to talk, but, I thought to myself, these vagrants are dubious sorts. You never can know what state they might be in, especially considering that they are liable to be under the influence of any sort of illicit substance. I waved at the vagrant and carried on my way. But after walking a block in the direction of my apartment, my conscience—was it my conscience, or rather my innate sense of guilt in regards to my privilege?—got the better of me.

            “Yes,” I thought. “I will go back and talk to him. For is he not actually my brother? We have been on good terms in the past, and unlike most vagrants I have come across, he seems like a peace-loving man.”

            So, I turned around and walked back, smoking a cigarette as I went.

            When I approached the vagrant, I noticed something that I hadn’t noticed initially: there was a woman with him, and she was smoking crack out of a clear glass pipe. She seemed to be totally absorbed in the act of smoking, and was oblivious to my presence.

            The vagrant greeted me warmly, calling me his “man.” I naturally took up the most casual mien I could muster, and I asked him how he was.

            “Ah, you know. Feeling good. Can’t complain.”

            I noticed that his eyes were bloodshot red. He had a rather frazzled look about him that was unfamiliar.

            “Is that crack she is smoking?” I asked, watching the woman as, with eyes practically closed, she inhaled the white smoke.

            “Yeah. Why? You never seen somebody smoke crack or something?” His tone was rather aggressive, and I felt a sudden tinge of anxiety and a tightening of my chest.

            “No, I have.”

            “You ain’t got no problem with it, do you?” It suddenly dawned on me that the vagrant was taller and broader of shoulder than I remembered him. He stood firmly and resolutely on his own two feet. For some reason, I had gotten the impression from our past meetings that he was not sturdy at all, and could hardly stand on his own two feet. He was actually rather imposing.

            “No,” I said. “I don’t have a problem with it. I wouldn’t do it, myself, though.”

            “Why not? What? You think you’re too good for it or something?”

            Suddenly I began to feel afraid. I needed a way out of this situation. The vagrant was becoming more and more worked up.

            “You look like a pedophile to me,” he said abruptly, and pointed at my chest.

            Naturally, I was offended, but I could not allow myself to show it. I simply smiled, as if I understood the vagrant’s comment to be facetious, when in all actuality, I knew deep down that he had meant it seriously.

            “You a pedophile?” he asked, so loudly that it seemed it could be heard the entire length of the city block.

            “No,” I said, shaking my head modestly, and smiling meekly and dejectedly.

            The vagrant walked closer to me, and put his face directly up to mine. His eyes were bouncing around, as if he weren’t seeing me at all, but some phantom that was surrounding me. “Prove it,” he said.

            Tears were beginning to form in my eyes. I did my best to smile through them. “Rita,” the vagrant said in a commanding voice. “Give the man the pipe. He gonna’ smoke some crack tonight.”

            I was speechless. But though I said nothing, I knew there was no possibility that I would smoke crack.

            Rita stood up and approached me with the pipe. I stood looking at it. “Go ahead, pedophile,” said the vagrant. “That’s good crack.”

            “Ain’t you gonna’ smoke it or what?” Rita asked in a cackled voice that grated on my ear drums like the cry of a banshee.

            I looked at the vagrant. How could I have misjudged this man so incalculably? At that moment, I felt like weeping, and I almost did. I must have painted a pathetic picture. My shoulders were hunched, and I could barely look the vagrant in his wild, darting eyes. Then, I stood upright, squaring my shoulders and tightening my abdomen. Suddenly I was the same height as the vagrant, and I no longer feared him.

            “I’m going home,” I said, and with the utmost confidence and self-awareness, I pivoted, turned, and walked away.

            “Bitch!”

            I didn’t so much as flinch, but I felt a pang in my heart as if someone had reached into my chest and squeezed with the utmost force. I was certainly on the verge of tears, but I did not cry. That word echoed inside my brain long after I had arrived at my apartment and lay in my bed. I rationalized, I justified, but the sound of the word lingered. Eventually, I decided that the vagrant and I actually spoke two different languages altogether. What he called a “bitch,” I called “a sensible, rational human being.” It had nothing to do with weakness. Only fear—but a justified fear. What was wrong with being afraid of the situation I had been put in? Nothing was wrong with it. Any sensible, rational human being would have been afraid. And yet, I concluded, I had inflicted terror upon the vagrant myself. I had most certainly judged him for smoking crack, and he had recognized this, and therefore had become afraid. I spent the entire night, smoking cigarette after cigarette, deliberating this in my mind. In the end, though I knew them to be rationalizations, I was satisfied with them. By morning, my anger and anxiety were gone, and I had vowed never to approach the vagrant again, even if he were starving and needed a dollar to buy the least bit of food.

Fireworks

The children in my neighborhood have been setting off fireworks every night now since the fourth. The same simple poppers. Not to send out any kind of message--for what could they actually have to say?--but simply for the sake of watching something explode. And yet this too is a message of sorts. These children, shut in because of the virus, have grown frustrated with the slow pace of the world, and therefore want to see and feel the rush of some sort of action. They get this rush vicariously through the explosion of the fireworks. But what happens when these same children are presented with a book--Moby Dick, say--and are asked to read it and study it? Their eyes will skip about the page, searching for explosions, but won't be able to find any. Not only won't they be able to comprehend the words in the book, they won't be able to look at the words at all. They don't want to study, these children. They want to make things explode. Ah, but therein lies the irony. For in order to truly make the kinds of explosions that would overshadow those of the fireworks, they must study. Or else, become angry and blow up at the world themselves.

Unsure of Foot

And what does it mean to be not sure of foot? It means, quite simply, that one is holding so fast to a delusion in one’s mind, that one is incapable of transferring any assurance into the simplest of physical actions—namely, putting one’s foot down and taking a step. And perhaps one can look at this “taking a step” in the metaphorical sense as well. One who is not sure of foot is actually incapable of taking a step toward anything that is reasonable or beneficial. He is like a man who has vertigo and is climbing a ladder for some altogether necessary reason, and yet cannot move because of his terror. He can neither take a step up toward his required goal, nor a step down away from it. Why? Because he is transfixed by the possibility of death, and the necessity of life. It does not matter that he is stuck on this ladder, so long as he is alive—for to be alive is essentially to be terrified of death, whether consciously or unconsciously. The deeper within the unconscious this fear exists, the more power it wields over the one who possesses it. One who is sure of foot is conscious of death on a very shallow level, and therefore he is not necessarily drowning in his fear. His feet are solidly planted, and his head is above water. But, inevitably, even those who are sure of foot must confront death, for the water is rising. Meanwhile, those who are not sure of foot are flailing about wildly, completely unaware that should he put his feet down, his head would still be above water…

Man and Master

As I am a homeless man, but not unsophisticated in the least, I prefer to spend my days in the public library, doing research on the computer. It isn’t important what I research, but I can assure you, it is all quite necessary to my own well-being and, more importantly, the well-being of the society I live in. For, considering what I have been through in my life, I could very well be a raging maniac. Thus, it is necessary for me to keep my mind sharp and well systematized. My days spent in this way are usually peaceful and uneventful—at least they are uneventful outside of my own researching ventures. However, one day a while back, I found myself put out of comfort in the most unusual way.

I was seated at my usual spot in the library, doing my research on one of the many computers they have there, when a gigantic man sat down at the computer next to me. Normally, I don’t pay any heed to the people around me. Being homeless, I am used to strange people and I have no qualms about their eccentricities or foibles, so long as they leave me in peace. But as soon as this man sat down I felt there was something wrong. For one, he smelled like old cheese. The smell, though awful, I felt I could tolerate. But then, I noticed he was muttering to himself. I had my headphones on, so I do not know what he was saying. It was starting to get under my skin, but again, as a homeless man, I felt that I should tolerate this foible. He probably had a mental illness of some kind, and as a man of the times, I feel it is only right that we should put up with behaviors that seem inappropriate if they are coming from people who are actually sick. And yet, what happened next I could simply not tolerate. The man turned to me, smiled goofily, and…licked my cheek. I took off my headphones and then…he licked my nose. I stood up. He was still smiling the same goofy smile.

“What is the matter with you?” I asked him, though I was certain I knew already that he was insane.

“Can’t a dog lick his master?” he said.

I glared at him. I stood for a moment, utterly baffled, then turned around and went to the security desk to report him. He followed me.

I told the security officer, a big, burly man with a crew cut, what had happened. He looked at the fat man, who was still smiling. “Is this true?” the security officer asked him. His mouth wide open, his tongue sticking out, he started panting and nodded his head several times.

“He’s my master,” he said.

The security officer looked at me as if to confirm what the man said. Then he looked back at the man, who was still smiling. The security officer picked up his phone. “We have an emergency,” he said…

The man was taken away, not without a struggle. He kept calling out to me: “Master! Master! Don’t let them take me!” I watched, stupefied, as he was dragged by security outside and into the ambulance.

About a month later, I saw the man on the street. He passed me and narrowed his eyes at me in bitterness, as if resentful. I still see the man often, sometimes on the street and sometimes in the library. He now lowers his head when he sees me, and avoids me to what seems to be the best of his ability. It actually makes me sad. Perhaps this man really thought he was a dog, and that I was his master. Or maybe it was all a very sick game he was playing just to get under my skin. Perhaps, even, he had been envious of me all along from afar. Anyway, he failed at taking vengeance. And perhaps even now he is planning an even more extreme form of vengeance, not just toward me, but toward everyone, or, at least everyone that has a master they needn’t cower from.

2 Haiku

The rabbit, chewing on a hasta leaf,

Watches me unconcerned

From behind the iron fence.

The starling pokes around the park

Aimlessly. Is it mad?
No, just bird-brained.

The Question

I bask in the mad ovation of the trees

And drink the blue tonic of the sky.

The sword-thrust of afternoon rays

leaves me doggedly weeping through my eyes.

My soul, in a free-fall

Toward the horizon, has no response

To the manifold echoes of existence

But to shout pell-mell and create

Its own unintelligible echo.

Yes, this soul longs to return

To the friction of its fire,

To the first photon of its radiation.

The enigma it seeks to solve

Is its own creation. Where does one begin

When the universe is so vast

And the soul, like an arrow from the bow

Punctures everything, from the blades

Of grass beneath my feet

To the distant stars?

Oh, who, and with what tools,

Spun this wondrous mystery?

It wasn’t me. I was not present at the beginning.

Yet there is a mad inkling that says to me

That what lay inside—the ever-watchful protector

That knows death awaits my flesh

But keeps me yearning for more life anyway,

That sleepless mass of peace and understanding

That has no fear and answers to nothing,

Not even death—knows that what I am and what

I will become is all that ever was

And all that ever needed to be.

Such an answer makes me silent,

And grateful, and the great mad cacophony

Of echoes resonate as one

And bring me peace.

4 Haiku

My heart lifts, and I sigh.
How innocent!
The little white daisies.


Birds circling--so majestic!
Down below,
We have gnats.


Listening for a line,
I hear a blue jay call.
I'll write tomorrow.


To the touch,
So soft, so delicate:
The daylillies.

Essay on Evil

How does one deal with evil? There are three options. The first option is to embrace evil entirely. The second is to try and integrate evil into one’s life in a way such that it does not consume one entirely. And the third is to try and stamp it out completely. Each has its own perils, advantages, and disadvantages.

            The first type—the type that embraces evil entirely—will find a great deal of pleasure in expressing their evil, in whatever form that may take. Inevitably they will chosoe a particular scapegoat. But, also inevitably, they will feel an intense backlash and will have to suffer incredible pains for their evil. And, also inevitably, their legacy will be one of evil.

            The second type—the type who integrates evil into their lives in a way such that it does not consume them entirely—is perhaps the most sophisticated option. They will find sly ways of expressing their evil. They may even garner a certain respect and notoriety for it. However, they will rarely taste the fruit of self-actualization. Because they are so concerned with towing the line, they will never know what it means to fall freely.

            And finally, the third type—those who try and stamp evil out of themselves entirely—these are perhaps the bravest, most radical souls of all. They will suffer immensely, but not at the hands of others, but by the hand of God. For there is much vanity in this approach to evil. In a sense, it is an attempt to make one’s self like God, and therefore God will inevitably be jealous of him. But the reward will be a legacy of good. Perhaps nothing else is guaranteed this type. And in a sense, this is very tragic, if not very noble.

            Evil can certainly be a source of strength, but more often it is a weakness. And in reality, it is never objective. One man’s good is another man’s evil. It’s as arbitrary as the meaning of one man’s life in relation to the universe. But it is still a choice that one must make over and over again.

Play

Scene: Room in psychiatric hospital. JOANNA, 20, sits on bed, muttering to self. Surrounding her is CHORUS.

Chorus

She’s crazy, that’s what they say!

But if you listen closely,

You can hear the sense in her ways.

The world needs a lunatic

Now and then, to bear the load

Of this mad world’s nonsense.

What’s that you say, child?
We can’t hear you.

Joanna

Blither and tither, wither and shiver.

The moon is my only friend.

She told me I have a world to upend.
Revolution! That’s the skylark’s truth.

Bleed the world till it is fresh and new,

Be the leech that pulls the decaying tooth!

The rotten worship of rotten gods

Has got the world tied up in knots!

Moon god is the one and only god.

Worship her or you’re a fraud.

I’ll take to task the blimey muses

Who make the poets write their silly ruses

Praising some invisible Lord that has no weight

Nor light to shed upon our baffled states.

Chorus

The doctor! The doctor! Silence

Or you’ll give yourself away.

Hold your tongue before it

Slips, and shows him that

You are crazed!

Joanna

I’m not crazed! Who are you, anyway?

Just a slave, just a pusillanimous hide-away!

(Enter Doctor)

Doctor

Hello there, child. My name is Doctor Dum.

Doctor John B. Dum, of the Vetergost Institute,

Proudly trained by Drs. Mary Rich and Seymour Payne.

I am here to help you my child. It seems

You’ve gone insane.

Joanna

Insane? Haha, doctor, I know your game.

You think because I speak wisdom that

Is beyond your brain, I must be insane.

But that’s just lame, doctor. That’s just lame.

I know why you really came. And I could

Indeed make it worth your while.

I could do to you what your wife would not,

That is, if you like to surf the Nile.

Doctor

Echem. Well, let’s not get out of hand.

I am recommending to you that you do

Electroconvulsive therapy. Nine times

To reset that brain of yours. You laugh?

What for?

Joanna

Oh, doctor! Oh, doctor! Forgive me.

It’s just that, I know all about your plan
To make me like you. That is, a machine.

The motions! The motions! They want me

To go through the motions! But I prefer

To let the moonbeams move me,

And not your routines. What god do you worship,

Doctor? I can assure you it is the wrong one.

Let me tell you about the moon goddess.

She is coming, you know, once the revolution

Is complete.

Doctor

Revolution? What sort of revolution?

Joanna

The only kind that matters, of course.

An armed revolution. And I must lead it!

The moon chose me because I am her pure-blood

Daughter. Did you know that

In my veins, instead of blood,

Moonbeams run? I could show you

If you gave me a knife.

Doctor

I think not. Please, consider electroconvulsive therapy.

It will bring you back to reality.

Joanna

Reality, you say? And what is that?

Nothing but decaying matter and beams of light.

I know what’s happening, Doctor.

This is my skin, I can see you with my eyes.

Why don’t you join me? You could be

My right-hand man. We could even have children…

Doctor

Ma’am, I am married, and you are out of your mind!

Now I warn you, should you refuse the treatment,

I have the power to force you to go through with it.

The police found you with possession of an illegally

Distributed firearm, and now that I know your intentions,

The court is sure to rule in my favor should I probate you.

Consider it well! Good day!

(Doctor leaves)

Joanna

Cog! His kind will be the first to go

Once the winds of change begin to blow—

A true bastion of the status quo.

May he be swept away by the undertow!

He says I must do shock therapy—

An oxymoron if you ask me.

If I could zap him, what would he be?

Just an ape, a raving monkey!

What’s going to happen to me?
Oh, moon, won’t you come to me

And offer me some comfort?

(Enter Moon)

Moon

My child, you needn’t fear.

No need to waste your tears.

They can shock you all they want,

Your mission is clear and you cannot be stopped.

What they think madness is actually

Divine inspiration, for my blood runs

Through your veins. You cannot be tamed.

Religious fervor, when backed by a god,

Is stronger than any earthly conviction.

Their science means nothing in the face

Of the divine. At any time, you can ask for a sign,
And I shall arrive. Don’t lose faith!

Don’t lose heart! Don’t forget me!

I must depart! Ah, but wait!

There is one last thing!

Here! Take this vial. Drink the potion

When you feel fear, and nothing else can save you.

Be warned, only drink it in the direst of times,

Lest you waste it, and it is gone betimes.

Joanna

Thank you, Moon. I will do as you say.

I will let them shock me, and then, they will pay!

End Scene.

Scene 2: Joanna is lying unconscious on a hospital bed. She has just undergone ECT. Her parents, RITA and JONATHAN, are there, along with Doctor Dum.

Doctor

She should be awakening at any moment.

Rita

What should we expect, doctor?

Will she be well when she wakes up?

Doctor

Her sanity will have returned, if my estimations are correct.

Jonathan

We can’t thank you enough, doctor.

Our little girl is everything to us.

For the last several months, it has been as if

She has disappeared and been replaced

By some…demon. The things she did!

Shocking! Just shocking! And her room,

With its maps on the wall covered in tacks,
As if she were planning some sort of a…

Revolution! That’s all she talked about.

Do you know, she even knocked on our door

One night. “Daddy,” she said. “I need to kill you now.”

And when I went and opened the door she stood there

With a knife in her hand and this horrible blank expression!

Oh, it was awful, doctor! Just awful! I can’t wait

To see her again as I knew her to be—so thoughtful,

So loving, so sweet! Certainly there has always been

A fire in her. To watch her on the soccer field you would

Understand. But God almighty! What we’ve been through

These last months have been…Hell!

Doctor

Yes, I know about the horrors of madness all too well.

Your experience has been bad, but hers has been a living Hell.

When she awakens she will be changed.

Illness like that makes a person warier, and in a sense,

More restrained. Your daughter is a girl no more.

She is a woman now, and there are many blessings in store.

(Joanna wakes up)

Rita

Oh, look! She’s waking up!

Darling, my darling! How do you feel?

Joanna

I feel…tired, and drained. But also…

Sane. It’s as if a heavy fog has lifted.

The world is clear. But, I feel heavy,

Sluggish.

Jonathan

Oh, my sweetheart! You are back, I can tell!

Your eyes are so clear, your voice so composed.

For the first time in a long time, you seem well!

Won’t you come home to live with us?

We’d love to have you home. Wait, I know!

Let’s go get ice cream! Butternut swirl,

My treat!

Joanna

That does sound tempting, and I am hungry,

But for now, I am so tired. Please, let me sleep.

Jonathan

Of course, my darling! Of course!

You rest now. We will be right here beside you.

End scene. Stage goes black. A single light comes on. The Doctor and her parents are gone. She sits up in bed. Enter Moon, weeping.

Joanna

Moon! What is it? Why are you weeping?

Moon

Oh, child! You have forgotten me!

You have forgotten that I am your mother,

And you have forgotten your duty toward me!

You are ready to join your parents in complacency,

And eat ice cream, and live in their home.

Is that what you want, child? A life of comfort

And ease? You want to forget me and the mission

Of your destiny? This doctor has eclipsed the truth

In you, it seems. Your eyes, once bright moons

That orbited the planet of destiny, are now veiled

From the truth by hypocrisy! Oh, child, it is

A sad day for me, indeed! My own flesh and blood

Has forgotten me!

Joanna

Oh, but Moon, I have not forgotten you!

Please, don’t cry. What will you have me do?

Moon

You must escape from the hospital, child!

Head to the forest. There, I will come to you again.

You will remember for what it is you are destined.

But be cautious, child! They will come for you!

You must be swift and silent as the serpent,

Vigilant as a bird. Spread your wings, child!

Fly! Fly! Flee from this cage!

Joanna

I will! Oh, I will, Moon! And thank you!

But wait. What must I do?

Moon

Revolution, child. Revolution.

Joanna

Of course! Revolution! Revolution! Revolution…

Stage goes dark again. When lights come back on, her parents are there again.

Joanna

Revolution…Revolution…

Jonathan

Joanna! Joanna!

(She finally wakes up, looks up at her father, stunned.)

It was just a dream, sweetie. Just a dream!

Joanna

It wasn’t just a dream. It was a divine message.

I have been chosen. I am the Moon’s daughter.

Rita

Honey, what are you saying? Doctor, what is this?
I thought you said she’d be cured!

Joanna

(Laughs hysterically) I’ll see you in Hell!

Joanna gets up and runs away.

Doctor

Stop her! Don’t let her escape! Oh, my Lord…

End Scene.

New Scene: Woods. Joanna is jogging. Moon appears.

Moon

Rest now, my child. They cannot catch you.

Not so long as I am on your side.

You have done well. You have escaped the clutches

Of the Devil with your mind intact.

Listen now, let me guide you as to how to act.

You see that star there? Follow it.
It will lead you to the city. There, you will meet

A man named Jacob Tinney. He will be

Expecting you—him and his band of lunatic rebels.

They have been waiting for you to lead the
Revolution.

Joanna

But Moon, am I…

Moon

Clear the doubts from your mind, my child.

You will know what to do when the time comes.

Within you are abilities that you cannot comprehend.

By the time the revolution is over, you will be a legend.

They will sing of you in songs till the end of time.

Statues of you will be erected. You will be like a god.

Do not fear destiny, my child. It is already written in the stars,

And I know the stars well. They speak in a language

Which I understand. Soon you will hear them, too.

You shall take your place among them some day.

But now, the time is at hand. Get ready your soul

For war. An army awaits your command.

And always remember, should things go awry,

Drink from the vial I gave to you, and things shall turn out right.

Goodbye, my child! Goodbye! Nothing can harm you, child.

Not as long as I am on your side!

(Exit Moon)

End Scene.

Scene: Hospital room. Doctor, Rita, and Jonathan. Rita is weeping.

Jonathan

It’s OK, honey. Everything is going to be alright.

Rita

But where is she? Where is she going? She should be back by now.

Doctor

She’s right. It’s been far too long.

It doesn’t make sense! The treatment failed.

How could it have failed? It’s almost as if…

Jonathan

Almost as if what, doctor?

Doctor

As if there were something deeper going on.

As if it were something beyond science.
Something…supernatural. Oh, but what am I saying?

Only, how could it have not worked?

It has never not worked before!

Look out that window. Can you see the moon?

Doesn’t it look overly large? Your daughter said,

The moon had been speaking to her.
Could it be that there is a connection?

Rita

What are you saying, doctor?

Doctor

Nothing. Forget it. The police are on her tail.

She will be back. She has to come back…

Rita

Is this our fault, doctor? Is she mad because of us?

Oh, perhaps there was something we missed.

Something that I could have addressed but dismissed?

What went wrong? How did we lose her?

I recall once when she was a child, we were

Walking through a park one evening and

She stopped dead in her tracks. When I looked,

Her eyes were wide and wild. She was looking

At the moon. I asked her what was wrong and she said:

“The moon, mommy. It just spoke to me.”
I told her it was nonsense and pulled her along.

Little things like that happened over and over again.
I never made anything of it. Perhaps if I had
Taken it seriously I could have helped her.

But I didn’t! And now my beloved girl is mad,
Mad beyond repair!

Doctor

It is not your fault. I can assure you of that.

Any parent, other than a neurotic, perhaps

Would have done the same thing as you.

You must be kind to yourself. You’ve

Acted with compassion, and could have

Done nothing more. That much is true.

Jonathan

Thank you, Doctor, for your kind words.

I think, for now, it is best that we were alone.

Doctor

Of course. Excuse me.

(Doctor leaves)

Jonathan

The moon has indeed grown.

I wonder, what if…but no.

It’s impossible. It will be alright.

She’ll come back to us.

She’ll come back…

End Scene.

Scene: Forest. Police, led by Detective Leroy Bane, is tracking Joanna with hounds.

Officer

Detective Bane, it seems the dogs

Have lost her scent again.

Something isn’t right.

Bane

Yes, it is odd, isn’t it?
And look at that moon.

It’s gigantic. The air feels electric tonight,

As if a storm were brewing, yet there isn’t

A cloud in the sky. It’s strange. Very strange…

My guess is she went to the city.

It isn’t far, boys. Let’s go.

Officer

Detective, something scares me.

Have you heard rumors of some budding

Revolution? They say the lunatics have been

Planning an uprising. Do you think this girl

We are chasing is somehow connected?

Bane

I have indeed heard rumors. I’ve wanted to investigate

The matter, but the man in charge showed no interest.

Let’s hope we don’t make a fool of him.

It doesn’t seem likely that this girl is connected,

Yet, I have a strange feeling in my gut.

It’s all very unsettling.

Officer

I am scared, detective. Really scared.

The number of lunatics in the street is increasing

Every night. And with them are the rest

Of the poor and the underprivileged.

It seems like something is reaching a head.

Bane (Ignoring Officer)

Let’s move it boys! It’s several miles to the city from here!

Hah! He’s scared, he says. We officers are not in the business

Of getting scared. And yet, something stirring is making

My own skin crawl. Never have I seen a moon

Like that before. And if the rumors are true,

And the lunatics have been waiting for their symbol to arrive,

Could it actually be this girl that we are chasing?

What is going on? Ah, damn it all to Hell!

We will catch her. All she needs is a heavy dose

Of antipsychotics and another shock to the brain.

You can’t reason with madness, it has to be tamed.

End scene.

Scene: Joanna is walking through the city streets. She comes upon people who seem to be in awe of her. They point, and whisper in each other’s ears.

Joanna

It is strange, walking these city streets.

Though I have never been here, it is all so familiar,

As if from a distant time, a distant dream.

These people all seem to recognize me,
But how, from where, I couldn’t say.

And though I really should be, I am not afraid.

I feel somehow that I belong here,

That these are my people, in fact.

Now who in the world is that?

(A MAN is heard singing offstage. He approaches Joanna, singing.)

Man

Lock-a-doo-ma-zayah, la-moony-kanana!

The queen is coming! The child of God.

Her veins are full of moonbeams,

Instead of blood.

Lock-a-doo-ma-zayah, la moony-kanana!

(He sees her)

Ahmoozah! Could it be you?

Joanna

My name is Joanna. Who might you be?

Jacob Tinney?

Jacob

It is you! Praise the Moon! It is you!

We have been waiting for you!

May I…touch the hand of the great goddess of the moon?

(He takes her hand)

Yes! I can feel the moonlight in your skin.

You have traveled far, I think.

Left much behind. Including what they would call

Your mind? Yes? Haha! Me as well! Me as well!

There will be no more need for a mind

Once the Moon takes her proper place of power.

She will think for us. We will be as moonbeams,

Pressing ever forward, touching new terrain.

All the sane will soon be insane—like us!

Come with me, and I will show you things
You’d never thought you’d see.

A war is brewing, and you are the key!

Come with me, and I will show you what I mean.

(They walk together)

The city is humming with revolutionary fervor.
They see you, but they can hardly believe.

Joanna

Where are we going?

Jacob

To our base. It is where all the weapons are stored.
The warriors are there now. We’ve been expecting you!

Oh, you will see, goddess. We are prepared for a great war!

Follow me, we have such things in store!

(They exit)

End scene.

Scene: Detective Bane and his men are walking through the city streets. People are yelling at them.

Woman #1

Pigs!

Man #1

Scoundrels!

Man #2

Murderers!

Woman #2

Liars! Go back to that snake pit where you came from!

Bane (Approaching WOMAN)

Excuse me Miss.

Woman

What do you want?

Bane

Have you seen a young white woman

With blonde hair, about yay high,

Walking around here?

Woman

I haven’t seen anybody. Why don’t you get lost?

Man #2

Yeah. You heard her. Get lost!

(OFFICER #1 begins pulling out his baton.)

Officer #1

You deserve a beating, talking

To a detective that way.

Bane (Gestures for him to stop)

I can fight my own battles.

Man #2

That’s right. He can fight his own battles.

Do what your master tells you, pig.

(Bane pulls out his baton and shoves it into Man #2’s gut. He falls. Bane spits)

Bane

No one here is going to help us.

These people lost their sense of dignity long ago.

(Gesturing toward Man #2 on ground)

Is this what your revolution looks like?

Pretty pathetic, if you ask me.

All of you are filth. If this place burns,
I hope you burn with it.

(To men)

Let’s spread out. We’ll find this young wench yet.

She couldn’t have gotten far.

(They leave)

Scene: Joanna and Jacob are walking through a warehouse. There are many men, and crates full of guns and ammo.

Jacob

As you can see we are fully prepared.
This (he picks up a bazooka) has the power

To take out a tank. If things go as expected,

We will have to fight the military,

Which will be no easy task.

But we will have the advantage,

Because the war will take place

In the streets, from building to building.
We are used to being in the trenches.

We will force them to fight a dirty fight.

They won’t bomb their own cities, of course.

They care too much about money for that!

These greedy swine. They will soon understand,

Their sinfulness has made them weak.

They won’t be ready for the kind of war

We will wage. They will stay in their homes,

And we will burn them out. Soldiers will join

Our cause. We will liberate the prisons

And set fire to the police stations.

We will execute every and all politicians,

For they have spread nothing but fear

And lies among the oppressed.

But you know all this. Is it not true

What they say? That the moon comes to you

And speaks to you? What is she like?

Joanna

It is true. The moon is my mother,

And she comes to me often.

She shares her deepest secrets.

She is more imperious and more majestic

Than any star in the sky. Her eyes, deeper

Than the very vacuum of space,

Penetrate through solid rock.

Nothing can amaze her, for she has seen
The birth of the universe.
And yet, her feelings are deep.

Her passion knows no bounds,

And her fury is like a tempest.
Of her love, one cannot speak.

For it is a love that consumes the soul.

One feels as if paralyzed by it.

To feel such love, one shudders

From the thrill and the pain of it.

And yet it is a love that comforts,

Makes one feel safe and eternal.

Such a love has no place in this world.

Men cry out for it, but it does not come.

Fools, they are praying to the wrong God.

The moon alone can offer eternal love.

Jacob

Yes, fool that I was, for the longest time

I did not believe. I had to lose my mind

Before it became clear that the moon

Was the one to whom I should be offering my prayers.

Now, I am on fire, just like you!

My eyes see the cataclysmic truth!

The sacred bond between man and moon

Is eternal, and soon…

Soon there will be perfect union between the two.

The moon is coming. One can see it in the sky.
She grows larger by the hour. The old ways shall die!

Listen, there are people like us all over the country.

They too are armed and prepared to die for the cause.

They wait for the signal, and then the revolution begins.

It is you who must confirm it. At your word,

We begin the war.

Joanna

Then let us not wait.

I confirm it. Give the signal.

I am ready.

Jacob

Men! Do you hear?

Gather your courage,

For now is the time!

The moon looms large in the sky!

May she come and deliver us

Before we die!

(Men cheer)

End scene.