Adam's Garden

the heroes have left me, and standing here alone without the words to describe my own inadequacy, i cannot help but feel ashamed that my life has become so redundant.  i am not brash or sincere, just another liar and thrifty drug addict, biding his time until night falls and he can seek solace in a pint or a drag.  the sadness of moonlight giving redemption to his battered soul, he feels the dream of his past in his shoes, and does not discover the girls to be rude or endearing, just there and pleasing to his senses.

the liar was me, and i could not feel his face, nor his misshapen abdomen, but i could feel what i needed, and i needed, very much, to be alive and present, and here, in this room, in this place, i could not feel love nor satisfaction, just the vindictive nightmare of my own inadequacy, the lit night beneath me, the focused man in my head, shouting at me, calling me a priest, labeling me a savior, but beneath the orders, beneath the compulsive lying, and the gambling and the drinking and the drinking and the drinking, was a man.  just a plain, tired, lonely man, seeking help, looking to me, his brother, for help.

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the scheme is present and the locks of past memory have called me forward.  there is love and awareness and the feeling of eternal bliss which accompanies such discoveries.  there are men in this room who would murder my child for such a discovery.  my child is safe and secure in his room, though he knows what awaits as he looks forth into my eyes and out into the world that surrounds us all.  he is afraid and i will tend to him.  i can control only so much and he knows that, so he stays close but knows that he must defend himself against this torrent of envy.

i am not the broken minister that the media has portrayed me as, they have lied often and well about my exploits at home, but i can tell you dear reader, without question, without doubt, that here now in this scary place we call country, i am surrounded by cowards concerned with fat and fear, and not with bravery and respect.

the future proposes a wide variety of initiatives that may lead to the destruction of my sanity.  what i can hold onto and will need in the coming years and months is the audacity to survive in the face of temptation.  there is not the betterment of others here, just the denial of all that is held dear and necessary for the worlds that are to come.  i can only sustain my own beliefs in the face of adversity and hope that i am not fanatical in those beliefs that prove self-destructive.

the only man who came to the funeral was a good friend of mine.  his fate was tied into my own and there was nor could be anything that would negate my future as it stood here today.  not like the only furnace i could manage, not like the future loves of my own youth, but just the poetic justice of a victim laying near, not quite fearing my wrath, not quite sure of my stench, but nonetheless understanding that here in my world, there are no worries, and no worries are necessary.

the fact of my own netherlands is the quiet force of the supreme awareness of my inequity, the lightly travelled arenas of facts that tell stories i hold quietly and soberly.  like the wind and snow that surrounds us, we can take honor and solace in the reservoirs of our attitudes.  we are indeed here and we are indeed the fighting surveyors of our land.

the honest poker player has to reconcile himself with the demands that face his own downfall.  he is the tired man and unknowingly has the pittance of understanding who he is and will be.  the man in his own right has no feeling for or awareness of himself.  he is merely a receptacle, a tired man without promise or direction, who can only persuade himself that his grand name and grand stride are indeed the result of the tireless efforts of his comrades, those spoiled youths who console his fears with their fearful adulation.

upsetting in the futures of our own suffering, the candles that extinguish themselves lightly cannot be understood or ignored.  there is a sensation of the righteous, a cowardice that speaks beyond my own grasp, and for that i speak not to you or from you, but without you.  either there is a multitude or there is loneliness.  either the people come together or they die petty and proud.

be upset and die for the laughter that comes with the awareness that the fickleness of fanaticism is true, and that virtue, with time and color, comes with humility.

the minor accents that flourish in these days of the miserable are indeed the pounding and hitting of the lost life’s misery.  i can take that pain and turn it around and put the shapes that i produce inside of my brain without honor or remorse.  i can maintain pride in the face of suffering and can feel ashamed in the love of my brother.  but not allowed to express a whimper of emotion, not allowed to suffer the charms of the outside world, there is not love here, but merely a dictatorship of silence, a mortuary of lost and displaced innocence, the infantile charm of childhood laid bare for the disturbed.