August 23, 2008

DOG-EYED SUBURBAN NIGHTS [PT1/2]


All the snow had melted since the last time I had been to this place, leaving the naked ground's well manicured grass exposed to our footprints. That blanket had been lifted.
We now stood at the top of the mountain in this cold place on a strangely warm night after climbing fences to get here. Patrick took no attention to nurse the stab on the palm of his hand, a battle wound from crossing this unpredictable territory as blood ran wildly due to the thinning effects of alcohol. We were an adverse motley crew, a group of vagrants, vagabonds and amorous drunks. Some of us more soldiers than explorers, some of us more explorers than poets, but with all said and done the moon still shone brightly and enveloped around each one in that opalescent manner you can experience if you've got enough luck and enough silence.
We read as many headstones as we could before gathering at the apex. Many used gaudy cell-phone flashlights and screens as illumination to make out the names and dates. I ran my calloused finger tips over some of the letters and squinted to make out some of the writings, but it was a vain attempt. I knew the ultimate information that was to be received:
'SOMEONE I DIDN'T KNOW, SOMEPLACE I NEVER WAS, SOMETIME THAT IS NOW GONE'
"Let's find some children," a voice rang out as it stabbed through the darkness which disguised our smoke-aged faces. My ear identified the owner but my eyes could not.
"What do you mean, like, kids?" another answered.
I felt some air escape my abdomen and out of my mouth like some putrid release of gas, "It was once quite common for women to die during childbirth," the air sounded as it left me to carry across the wind. And so we went in search of grouped markers: mother and child.
We were the guests of the dead tonight though, and despite how we laughed jeeringly at times we oft-stood in awe of their beauty, of the utmost respect which all must share for them since we know they are everything we ever will and forever shall be, despite our pissings on this district.
At this point, I, your humble narrator, protagonist, or heroine if you will, have led our boastful band astray in hopes of a speedy and safe exit. The paths grew stranger and stranger and realizing that without its usual blanket this place was not the same, we were forced to turn back the way we came. Only to the sudden surprise of Joshua did the sprinkler system of the dry golf course begin to explode like land mines around us, some strange weaponry which was on the seemingly neutral ground of our expedition.
Though the soldiers have warned the explorers and the explorers have led the poets. Now the poets must lead us back with due warning.

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