ConfrontationOur Hero asks of the God,
“Why have you done this to me?”
The Immortal looks down on our Hero,
he cocks his head to the side & says,
“I am not responsible
for your present condition.”
Our Hero is not steered into doubt,
he points accusingly,
& puffs up his chest,
& hopes for condemnation, shouting,
“You have shown your hand to me.
I have seen your work,
in the mortar that set
each stone to the path
on which I’ve stepped.
I demand of you, a Reason.”
The God squares his shoulders
& looks away for a long time,
but our Hero can’t say for sure,
if it was seconds or years,
waiting as he was,
declared of purpose,
& resolved to collect his payment
for the blood he’d spilled.
It had been long enough
& our Hero,
fixed so intently on his prize,
so sharply responsive to threat,
that when the words came down
from above,
their volume & clarity,
enveloped his every sense.
“There was a Winter once,
when you were very young.
There had a been a great deal of snow,
& it had been amassing on the sidewalks.
Some of the piles were miles long,
& stained with soot & smoke.
The rain appeared
as if it were being poured
from the Sky’s own swollen bucket.
Until that night,
I had never questioned
the scouring potential of a hard Rain,
but the piles received no washing,
instead,
the Rain laid sheets of ice
one after the other
until the mounds
glistened with fortification;
Their stains were sealed within them.
That is why you walked in the street
once,
you could never have scaled
the sidewalks.
I saw you in the glow of my Headlights,
every car was passing you
& each tossed ice from its tires
or displaced some black puddle
onto your person.
I was no different in my course,
nor was I playing any part in yours
beyond one of an accumulated mass
simply responding to their environment,
but then too,
just as now,
you shook your fist at me & shouted.
I ask you with no motive,
barring my curiosity,
What do you think I have done to you?”
Our Hero is quick to call,
shouting until his throat is raw,
“I will not have you lie to me.
You’d have me believe,
that you were with me in the coliseum,
& when I rose at the contest’s end
to plea for blood,
you rose beside me
& made the same plea
& your voice
rung no louder than mine.
You’d have me call you powerless,
& accept your role,
as no more significant
than my own.
Can you see any Justice in that?”
The Immortal stands in silence,
while our Hero swallows the air
in desperate resuscitation
& hates the God for appearing
to ponder,
time stretches out before him.
The voice glares again
in the mind of our Hero,
“I can see the torch of Justice
in most things.
Though, I believe, you mean to ask me,
whether I can see any Injustice,
in your example.
In History,
your kind have often believed
that Justice & Injustice
are two different forces,
or two sides of a metaphorical coin,
when in reality,
there is only Justice
& it’s absence.
Many of that mind
are great leaders of men,
& most others
are the followers of men
who personify
that error of thought.
Which would you rather be?”
Our Hero is taken aback,
he feels the emptiness of time
& fears to ponder within it.
He is aware that his fate,
is but a string
tied to an Immortal finger.
He is cautious of cunning,
but he feels out of step
with any rhythm
& the Immortal awaits his response,
“I have seen the fate of Leaders,
& those who carry them,
in the end,
one ends up with his head on a pole,
while the others
wipe the blood from their hands
onto derelict banners.”
The Immortal was quick to retort,
“Many people end
with their heads on poles
& many people
part the blood from their hands.
You have been one
or the other
many times in your life
& you have assumed
each time
that their were but two roles
in the unfolding drama,
which is to say more clearly,
your role & every other,
& you have chosen only one
for some inconsequential reason
as the part which best suited you,
but you were wrong.
Which, now, would you rather be?”
Our Hero had the taste of brass
in his mouth,
& felt, as though,
he were already transforming
into the beast
he hadn’t the courage yet
to name.
The Immortal
looks down upon our Hero again
& his eyes reflect the light
which fills the space around him.
Our Hero blacks out.
Much of life
travels by the will of others.
A hummingbird drinks its fill,
A sparrow builds its nest,
A vulture swallows its heart,
so moves the spirit of man
& our Hero also,
back to town.
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