within

coming down the line of hours

staring at unreachable towers

another opportunity denied to those

to whom it seems all doors are closed

the words tease deliberate unrest like locusts

obscure societally pointed focus

the bloated perceive only the sound of their own will

as mastication of the slowest kill

the ones who hope eternal sing

forget the deaf and dumb

for all our hopes may ever bring

there will be salvation

the ones who dream are red

the ones who stifle pale

if you'd like to feel instead

then raise your arms unto the gale

and of course the one's who say nothing win

of course they always do

headless, heartless, fading skins

this plague is nothing new

that which you see beyond the tower

the one that is not there

will define you in your finest hour

when what you feel is rare

within

spinning.1

I don't suppose that it was a coincidence that I was at Erfurt starving in the soul, foraging through the lessons of Meister Eckhart when I received the note.

"She is dead. I am in ruins. Come if you can."

I was skulking at the back of the church, listening to a modern interpretation of one of Eckhart's foundational concepts... "Gelassenheit," when the mouselike Sister from the little stand at the entrance came near and tugged at my shirt sleeve.

I turned and was at once taken aback by the emotion pouring from her bulging black eyes, which were rendered more stark amid the vast white wells that could not contain them.

I took the note.

It was from Anton.

My friend.

More of a father to me than my father.

More of a brother to me than my brother.

My friend.

I read the note.

Clearly, the little woman had read it too.

I regarded her for a spell without saying anything.

There was the sound of shuffling at the window high over head.

A black bird and a white bird vied for vantage from which to peer within.

The Predigerkirche at Erfurt has held within it many things that were or needed to have been...

Witnessed.

"Gelassenheit."

I lowered my eyes and then looked once more unto the kindly lady.

I smiled and thanked her.

She bowed, turned, and went away.

Two hours later I was on the train.

"She is dead. I am in ruins. Come if you can."

In some respects it was a comical reversal of previous perspectives.

For years, Anton had amused himself by poking fun at my sentimentality...

My inability to simply let things be...

To let the story be...

To let things go.

"Journalists who do not remain objective are condemned to becoming part of the story," he used to say.

"And how many times do we write happy stories?"

He'd asked me that whilst we were sitting together at the side of a road outside of Vukovar...

Near the site of yet another massacre.

But it wasn't until later, in Bosnia, that the line between objectivity and humanity became truly blurred...

Forgettable...

As a matter of human necessity.

And that was just the beginning.

Fifteen years of working together in the most hellish places the world of men and their warring follies could afford begat discussions never ending regarding the truth of humanity, nature, love, hope...

And faith.

"Remarkable," I thought as I took a sip of my whiskey and then set it down again on the table in the train cabin in which I traveled, "that I keep spinning around the same discussions in my head and my heart...

Spinning...

Like a turd that won't flush...

Spinning...

Like the world of wonder that all of this...

Truly...

Is."

not

unto this affliction

murmured the man before the stone

i can see no solution 

resolutely and alone

dreamless clouds conspired 

to usurp the hopeful day

their rule on time expired

when threat of rain drifted away

one foot 'fore the other

horizon is a state

if not one concern it's another

would concerns would be away

for all the bleeding we have done

serving at the feet of love

for the devils and saints we are become

was it some other hell you're thinking of?

for these lapses in the social frame

desired doses of affectionate communion

as kisses too soon wane

at lingered tastes of sweetest union

the man wrapped his empty arms about his knees

and stared unto the crimson sky

"oh i do not understand

oh no i don't know why"

despite his ardent love ideal

this did not manifest

reconcile the dream with real

but do not let ideal rest

his ribs constrained for famine's sake

the stone invokes the words at last

insipid things a verbal snake

don't nearly reconcile the past

but in the purge there is something good

the man lifts his head once more to sky

a debt to speak what needs and should

to all the other lonely seekers asking why

they are alone 

and you

are

not

clarity

asses wasted

for want of something

substantive

to bear

the aimless hasten

afoot for hollow

rumours of finer

air

hard against the temple

tap

these soulless days don't bring much

sap

figures fill tangential fields

the calculus of faith

rot in hell for what that yields

now you've become the wraith

and we are come unto a truth

despite eternal fears

let our actions speak the proof

of all our living years

at first 'twas saddled calm as

burden

all the failings our heads are

blurred in

along some tired and whispered way 

from deep unto the light

the ass don't choose to go astray

toward paths that don't seem right

to you, or me, or anyone

high

in fits fervent and like the sun or

sky

you sit alone tonight

somewhere deep in space

weight of the world

of hope there is no trace

until you knock your fist against

the temple

the hollows and concessions feigned

rattle unto

clumsy

clarity