An older piece, first published by Shoots and Vines lit blog (before they went exclusively POD). I have a soft spot for this one because it’s all about the hidden war, quiet and subdued, that characterizes the artist. A private war, a contained frenzy, like a muffled dance floor in the next room. The blood is as real as you make it.
“Cry Havoc! Let slip the dogs of war!”
Bath-robed, teacup-clad, puffing
on interminable Camels,
he’s hidden inside himself.
War is Hell.
In the foggy labyrinth of his mind
words curl around slippery meaning
like a fisherman’s calloused fingers.
In another place ant-like
alphabetic architects construct
in a vain attempt to blueprint
the ever elusive truth…
Like sand in a fist.
All the while, at the heart of the Maze
the Conquistador of unwritten writings
(quill in hand, heart pumping ink)
battles the bath-robed, teacup-clad coward:
Words are fished,
ants build, battles rage
A peace treaty is signed.
Tea-less, craving Camels,
he leaves himself and lives
to fight another day.