“Marath’damane”, Part 4

Wherein an Oath is made under terms of duress…

The mud-splattered child crouched on the ground a short distance away and observed them cautiously.

”She has the ageless face,” the girl exclaimed softly, “but she does not look like any Aes Sedai I have ever seen.”

Bedevir looked up and replied, “Forgive me, but I do not have the pleasure of your acquaintance.”

”Alicia,” said the girl. Her bright green eyes were still reddened from tears, but she spoke solidly.

”Bedevir,” the Warder responded. “She is Egraine Sedai. You will have to forgive me, Alicia. I am afraid we have little in the way of comfort to offer you.”

”More than usual,” the girl shrugged. She looked as if she were used to the hollowness of an empty stomach.

”Well and good,” he nodded, adjusting his bracers. “Now, will you please tell me what my lady and I have stumbled into.”

Alicia divided a long gaze between them before answering hesitantly, “You do not know of the Seanchan?”

”Should we?” Bedevir looked at her sideways. “Egraine Sedai and I don’t often visit towns or villages or larger cities. Any news we receive at all is generally sorely out of date.”

”That woman!” Alicia suddenly snapped, thrusting a mud-encrusted finger at the blond woman with the collar. “Bloody Seanchan sul’dam!”

Egraine jumped at Alicia’s outburst and squeezed her eyes closed.

”Oh ho,” the Warder nodded to himself, wondering if bringing this…Seanchan…along had been such a good idea. He had been hoping for information rather than further complications. Once you landed in a fire, there generally was no way out but through. He immediately decided that Alicia lacked compatibility with their other guest.

”Took my sister away, stupid daughter of a goat!” the dirty girl shouted shrilly, tears streaming from her eyes and over her cheeks. She sprang fiercely to her feet and kicked the prone woman in the side as hard as she possibly could. With a grunt, her victim doubled herself more completely into a ball. Alicia already wound up for a second kick before Bedevir sprang over the fire and lifted her away with his thick arms.

“Let me go! She deserves it!” Alicia immediately began to struggle against him.

”Please hold on,” the Warder begged the girl. “I brought her here because I thought she might need help.”

The muddy girl continued to struggle against him by flailing against his shins with her heels. “You slew five of her friends in that fight and you thought she needed help?!?”

”Something very strange happened when I locked that collar around her throat,” Bedevir explained calmly. “When I picked her up, she would have bit me and kicked me like a feral animal. But, then I locked the collar onto her and I felt her fighting spirit flee. I have never felt anyone fall into despair so quickly. That thing is some form of ter’angreal, I’d wager. I have a duty to make certain it finds its way to the White Tower. At the very least, I have to find out what this woman said as I dropped her.”

Egraine watched them in bewilderment. Bedevir felt something from her not unlike a dawning revelation, as if she verged on becoming inspired. She stared unblinkingly at the blond woman, and at the length of delicately worked silver attached to the collar on her neck.

Alicia finally relaxed enough for Bedevir to let her feet back to the ground. “She would put that collar on your Aes Sedai’s neck without a second thought. She deserves to be staked out in the rain.”

”This woman is a soldier,” Bedevir said. “I know soldiers when I see them. You have to forgive soldiers for following orders. No one deserves to be staked anywhere over fighting for what they believe in. Will you give me your oath that you will not strike out at her again?”

”She bloody well deserves it,” the girl insisted.

”I will not release you until you give me an oath.”

Alicia humphed in annoyance. “I swear on the Light not to kill her now.”

”Not hurt,” Bedevir prompted.

”And I also swear not to hurt her,” the girl droned. “Happy now?”

He carefully let her go and said, “I hold you to your word. If you break it, I will not hesitate to stake you out in the rain.”

Alicia glowered at him, but nodded. She wrapped her arms around herself and started to sit, glaring emerald daggers at the back of the woman lying nearby. For the first time, Bedevir really looked at her. Her patchy clothes hung loosely over skinny arms. Whether she wore the remains of breeches or a dress, he could not tell. Her hair straggled to the lower part of her back in a thatch whose color defied guessing. The grime did not disguise the scars lining her arms and legs. When he saw her flee before, he never thought that her feet might be bare. She shivered and glared at him again.

Bedevir took off his colorshifting cloak, then carefully draped it over her shoulders.

”Wait,” she protested, green eyes wide.

He shook his head. “No, you need it more than I. We have no other clothes to give you.”

(to be continued)

“Marath’damane”, Part 3

Wherein in the aftermath of their encounter, a Warder and his charge assess their situation…

The two horses galloped and skidded in the increasing mire. Unseasonable heat, now broken by squalling rain, winnowed down the formerly lush landscape until it became starkly passable. This far south, wilting trees horribly yellowed spoke of the drought so recently passed.

Bedevir kept a close eye on their path in addition to his ward. Egraine never proved her mettle as an athlete and frequently made spectacular falls from the back of her horse. The last such ride, she managed to spill herself before a fist of hungry Trollocs at full sprint. Not the most auspicious fumble for an Aes Sedai to make. She had spent the first few hours of this flight trying to properly lodge her skinny feet in the stirrups, even as she bounced around so violently that she would probably be limping for days. Bedevir had already caught her twice before she bucked free of the saddle when Darkmane leapt across a swollen river. The rain prevented clear conversation and he doubted Egraine could manage it even if she heard him. Of all the Aes Sedai he had met and served in his considerable career, none had needed warding as much as this tiny woman.

The girl they saved from the rabble of soldiers and strange channeling women clung to his saddle in a muddy lump. She had not spoken a word but for when they first started out, and only then to ask, “Is that an Aes Sedai?”

The Warder flicked his reins and heeled Farstrider, then answered, “She wears the ring, yes.”

She made no further comment, though Bedevir thought more than once that she might be crying.

Their other companion made even less of herself than the child. She lay across Darkmane’s saddle ahead of Egraine like a sack of flour, not stirring in the slightest. While they rode, Bedevir brought Farstrider close beside the pony to check, thinking she might be dead. He found her eyes open and unblinking instead. He wondered what could possibly have happened to sap her will for struggle. He wished he knew what she said when she fell. After seeing the women in gray, he had his suspicions about the leash, though he could not be certain. So many questions to ask in so little time.

He did not like it at all. The fewer conflicts which Bedevir ended up embroiled in, the better for everyone involved. Cadaela Sedai had made his duty perfectly clear. One day, they would need to return to the Tower, to be sure. If only that choice were his to make and not Egraine’s. The two would continue along her meandering path until that sometime day finally came. As long as Bedevir could protect her, he would be there for her.

With the torrential downpour, at least he did not have to worry much about leaving tracks. Rainwater deepened in gulleys in the face of the worsening flood. The horses labored in the mire, leaving behind no signs that might telegraph a heading. Bedevir wondered if the High God were not drowning the world in an effort to start anew.

Eventually he found a shallow recess in a hillside that looked relatively dry and drew rein. He dared not risk his charge crashing through a thick branch in the dark, or some other painful mistake he knew she might commit. In his experience, a Warder’s greatest enemy was benign carelessness.

He helped the child to the ground, then began to set up camp. Soon after, he had Egraine settled by a small fire and set about hobbling the horses. The woman in blue lay in a fetal position in the deepest part of the hollow, shivering. He briefly considered asking Egraine to set wards or weave a cloak of light, then thought better of it.

Egraine caught him as he dropped down to sit by the fire. Her dark brown eyes could not quite meet his, though her youthful lips worked as if she wanted to ask a question. She drew his color-shifting cloak aside and pressed her palm into a gap in his tunic. He tensed his thick jaw in response, but counted the wound nothing; he had seen worse getting her through whilst fighting Aire. Her touch met fresh blood. No surprise that she had noticed.

”It is not logical,” she muttered, “not logical.” Her quaking fingers probed the wound as she tilted her head to one side and blinked.

The Warder gasped aloud as an icy shock ripped through his body, reaching from his toes all the way to his skull. “The wound is not–,” he breathed out as she released him. He swore to himself not to regret the hunger he knew would come later.

Egraine vaguely nodded and shivered, never once looking him directly in the eye. Her head turned from side to side in a darting motion, lips moving momentarily, though no words came out. She drew her legs in until she sat with her chin resting on her knees. He sensed her fear ease somewhat, though her tongue might remain planted yet for hours.

Bedevir patted her on the shoulder and said, “Please get some sleep, and try not to think about what happened. We will get through this.”

She stared into the fire and nodded wordlessly.

(to be continued)

Prologue, Part 1 and Part 2.

SCOTUS Watch: Racial Diversity in Schools/Term Wrap-Up

With the issuance of the opinions relating to Parents v. Seattle and Meredith v. Jefferson County [click here for a summary that I posted back in December when the Supreme Court first heard both cases], the Court has completed its 2006-2007 Term and has recessed for the summer. Although requests for argument and appeals will still accumulate throughout the next few months, the Court shall not sit in session again until Monday, 1 October 2007.

Racial Desegregation: Meredith/Parents

Here is the conjoined opinion as it relates to Meredith and Parents. The opinion is 185 pages long and will take some time to fully comprehend and digest. A brief skimming reveals gems such as

The principle that racial balancing is not permitted is one of substance, not semantics. Racial balancing is not transformed from “patently unconstitutional” to a compelling state interest simply by relabeling it “racial diversity.” While the school districts use various verbal formulations to describe the interest they seek to promote racial diversity, avoidance of racial isolation, racial integration, they offer no definition of the interest that suggests it differs from racial balance. See, e.g., App. in No. 05–908,at 257a (“Q. What’s your understanding of when a school suffers from racial isolation? A. I don’t have a definition for that”); id., at 228a–229a (“I don’t think we’ve ever sat down and said, ‘Define racially concentrated school exactly on point in quantitative terms.’ I don’t think we’ve ever had that conversation”); Tr. in McFarland I, at 1-90 (Dec. 8, 2003) (“Q. How does the Jefferson County School Board define diversity . . . ?” “A. Well, we want to have the schools that make up the percentage of students of the population”).

[Roberts]

and

…the dissent argues that the racial balancing in these plans is not an end in itself but is instead intended to “teach children to engage in the kind of cooperation among Americans of all races that is necessary to make a land of three hundred million people one Nation.” Post, at 39–40. These “generic lessons in socialization and good citizenship” are too sweeping to qualify as compelling interests. Grutter, 539 U. S., at 348 (SCALIA, J., concurring in part and dissenting in part). And they are not “uniquely relevant” to schools or “uniquely ‘teachable’ in a formal educational setting.” Id., at 347. Therefore, if governments may constitutionally use racial balancing to achieve these aspirational ends in schools, they may use racial balancing to achieve similar goals at every level, from state-sponsored 4–H clubs, see Bazemore v. Friday, 478 U. S. 385, 388–390 (1986) (Brennan, J., concurring), to the state civil service. See Grutter, 539 U. S. 347–348 (opinion of SCALIA, J.).

[Thomas].

Not quite comforting thoughts when one considers the underlying basis which forms the backbone of the modern American civil rights movement [from which the LGBT rights movement is derived], Brown v. Board of Education.

SCOTUS Roundup

Emperor Palpatine may call himself “The Decider” but the real power behind the Supreme Court is none other than Vice President Cheney, according to this article by Peter Lattman of the Wall Street Journal.

At Bloomberg.com, Greg Stohr analyzes the pro-business tendencies of the Roberts Court during this recent term.

Here is an in-depth discussion by Nina Totenberg on NPR.com with respect to the deep ideological and philosophical divisions amongst the Supreme Court. [Windows Media Player required.]

Here is an online discussion held by Robert Barnes of the Washington Post regarding the recent slew of 5-4 decisions issued by the Court, as well as an analysis of the Court’s newly assertive conservative majority.

The First Amendment case, Morse v. Frederick gets its share of the spotlight over at The Volokh Conspiracy.

Last but not least, here is an editorial by the Washington Post on the dangerous precedent that has been set with the Court’s recent campaign finance-related ruling in Federal Election Commission v. Wisconsin Right to Life.

It appears that our favorite neo-conservative has made his mark on our judicial landscape in more ways than one. Shock and awe, folks. The fun has just begun.

The Tale of the Crone and the Puppet

I was in the Wand and Wyvern, a tavern located in the Arcanus Quarter of Tolmara, talking to my fellows when I first saw the woman. Now, Mel’Cendians are fairly common in the Wand and Wyvern: as a breed, they seem inclined to wander far from their perches in Castle Falconedge. Elderly Mel’Cendian women, however, are not so migratory, and the wizened old biddy drew attention to herself, wandering about the room, talking to everyone. Still, having noted her, I moved on to join my mates.

Ursult and Tymaeus were at their usual places, drinking their usual stuff. Ursult was showing off a prize he had picked up in some illicit manner — a colossal sapphire, large as a baby’s hand, and clear as seawater from the Bay of Brenfaern. I was admiring it when I heard the creaking of old bones behind me.

“Good day to you, friends,” said the old woman. “My name is Syriah, and I am in need of a few coins to secure passage to Whytecoin.”

“You’ll want to see the White Temple for charity,” said Ursult curtly.

“I am not looking for charity,” said Syriah. “I’m looking to barter services.”

“Don’t make me sick, old woman,” laughed Tymaeus.

“Did you say your name was Syriah?” I asked, “Are you related to Syriah of the Empty Palm, the famed alchemist from Mel Nethra?”

“Extremely related,” she said, with a cackle. “We are the same person. Perhaps I could prepare you a potion in exchange for gold? I noticed that you have in your possession a very fine sapphire. The magical qualities of sapphires are boundless.”

“Sorry, old woman, I ain’t giving it up for magic. It was trouble enough stealing this one,” said Tymaeus. “I’ve got a fence who’ll trade it for gold.”

“But your fence will demand a certain percentage, will he not? What if I could give you a potion of invisibility and silence in exchange? In return for that sapphire, you could have the means to steal many more. A very fair exchange of services, I would say.”

“It would be, but I have no gold to give you,” said Tymaeus.

“I’ll take what remains of the sapphire after I’ve made the potion,” said Syriah. “If you took it to the Citadel, you’d have to supply all the other ingredients and pay for it as well. But I learned my craft in the wild, where no alchemists existed to grind gems into dust. When you must do it all by hand, by simple skill, you are blessed with remnants those fool alchemists at the Citadel simply swallow up.”

“That sounds all very nice,” said Ursult, “But how do we know your potion is going to work? If you make one potion, take the rest of Tymaeus’ sapphire, and leave, we won’t know until you’ve gone whether the potion works or not.”

“Ah, trust is so rare these days,” sighed Syriah. “I suppose I could make two potions for you, and there’d still be a little bit of the sapphire left for me. Not a lot, but perhaps enough to get me to Whytecoin. Then you could try the first potion right here and now, and see if you’re satisfied or not.”

“But,” I interjected. “You could make one potion that works and one that doesn’t, and take more of the sapphire. She could even give you a slow-acting poison, and by the time she got to Whytecoin, you’d be dead.”

“By the Great Mother, you Fhaardi are suspicious! I will hardly have any sapphire left, but I could make two potions of two doses each, so you can satisfy yourself that the potion works and has no negative effects. If you still don’t trust me, come along with me to my table and witness my craft if you’d like.”

So it was decided that I would accompany Syriah back to her table where she had all her traveling bags full of herbs and minerals, to make certain that she was not making two different potions. It took nearly an hour of preparation, but she kindly allowed me to finish her half-filled flagon of wine while I watched her work. Splintering the sapphire and powdering the pieces required the bulk of the time; over and over again, she waved her gnarled hands over the gem, intoning ancient enchantments, breaking the facets of the stone into smaller and smaller pieces. Separately she made pastes of minced winter root, crushed tiny bulbs of field garlic, and droplets of rosewort oil. I finished the wine.

“Old woman,” I finally said with a sigh. “How much longer is this going to take? I’m getting tired of watching you work.”

“The Diamond Citadel has fooled the populace into thinking alchemy is a science,” she said. “But if you’re tired, rest your eyes.”

My eyes closed, seemingly of their own volition. But there had been something in that wine. Something that made me do what she asked.

“I think I’ll make up the potion as cakes. It’s much more potent that way. Now, tell me, young man, what will your friends do once I give them the potion?”

“Mug you in the street afterwards to retrieve the rest of the sapphire,” I said simply. I didn’t want to tell the truth, but there it was.

“I thought so, but I wanted to be certain. You may open your eyes now.”

I opened my eyes. Syriah had made a small presentation on a wooden platter: two small cakes and a silver cutting knife.

“Pick up the cakes and bring them to the table,” said Syriah. “And don’t say anything, except to agree with whatever I say.”

I did as I was told. It was a curious sensation. I didn’t really mind being her puppet. Of course, in retrospect, I resent it, but it seemed perfectly natural at the time to obey without question.

Syriah handed the cakes to Tymaeus and I dutifully verified that both cakes were made the same way. She suggested that he cut one of the cakes in half, and she would take one piece and he’d take the other, just so he would know that they worked and weren’t poisoned. Tymaeus thought it was a good idea, and used Syriah’s knife to cut the cake. Syriah took the piece on the left and popped into her mouth. Tymaeus took the piece on the right and swallowed it more cautiously.

Syriah and all the bags she was carrying vanished from sight almost instantly. Nothing happened to Tymaeus.

“Why did it work for the witch and not for me?” cried Tymaeus.

“Because the sapphire dust was only on the left-hand side of the blade,” said the old alchemist through me. I felt her control lessening as the distance grew and she hurried invisibly down the darkened street away from the Wand and Wyvern.

We never found Syriah or the sapphire. Whether she completed her pilgrimage to Whytecoin is anyone’s guess. The cakes had no effect, except to give Tymaeus a bad case of the runs that lasted for nearly a week.

Manhattan Shore

Tomorrow the sun rises
just a notch more south
than this morning

and as the edge of now
carves another channel
in the bone of my being

atop the bridge,
flags dance in time
to a gentle summer breeze.

I write on Manhattan side,
as a ciggie threatens to burn
yellowed fingers.

Three Britons ask me
to take their picture,
but two dimensions are not enough

to hold the scent of the river,
the golden taste of tobacco,
and the soft touch of their words.

Ocho Cosas

Apparently I’ve been tagged by the delicious Glenn and his army of chocolate gnomes.

My first thought was that ‘I’m really not that interesting that I could be worthy of being tagged. So sorry but I must put the kibosh on that one.’ But where’s the fun in that? Ok then, I’ll play along.

Some of you are going to have to wait until later today because I don’t have my digicam on hand. One will be a pic of part of my CD collection [before an evil little thing called iTunes came along] and another will be books I’ve read in the past year or so. Patience is a virtue, haven’t you heard?

Las reglas:

1. All right, here are the rules.

2. We have to post these rules before we give you the facts.

3. Players start with eight random facts/habits about themselves.

4. People who are tagged need to write their own blog about their eight things and post these rules.

5. At the end of your blog, you need to choose eight people to get tagged and list their names. Don’t forget to leave them a comment telling them they’re tagged, and to read your blog.

* * *

Uno: I’ve been playing M:tG ever since it came out and at one point amassed a sizeable card collection, most of which I’ve sold or given away. I haven’t completely divested myself of them however. I’ve still retained some, partly out of nostalgia and partly because of the art. Each card is tied to a specific painting which can be bought, if you know where to look. Early cards such as

were notably flavorless. As the game’s evolved and improved over the years, so has the art.

Crucible of Worlds is one of my favorite cards from both a functional and artistic perspective.

Here are three of my favorite M:tG cards [and artists] of all time:

Vesuvan Doppleganger by Quinton Hoover.

Autumn Willow by Margaret Organ-Kean.

Island (Ravnica version) by Stephan Martiniere.

* * *

Dos: I appreciate the music that a well-crafted line of verse evokes.

Tres: When I order a hamburger deluxe — that’s a hamburger with french fries for non-American readers — I sprinkle salt and pepper on the tomato and a bit on the fries, then add a little ketchup on the burger and some on the fries. I usually eat the burger over the fries, the better to catch any drippings. Translation: analytical, efficient. The next time you’re at a diner, do a little observation. It’ll tell you a great deal about the person sitting next to you.

Cuatro: Belgian frites with mayonnaise are difficult to find in New York. I know of only two places that serve them. Here is one of them. Belgo might be the other. This reminds me of that scene in Pulp Fiction with Vincent and Jules. It’s my experience that Americans are [generally] loath to try things that rest outside their collective sphere of experience, especially when it comes to food. Yet for all our vaunted open-mindedness, we tend to impose our expectations on other cultures. Whatever you might think of mayonnaise, look not for Hellman’s but for the glorious marriage of egg yolks, olive oil and acid that the French call moyeunaise, aioli or sauce rémoulade depending on the ingredients and composition involved. Anything else is but a pale imitation.

Cinco: I’m left of center on most social issues [the death penalty being the notable exception], yet strongly conservative on fiscal issues. Go figure.

Seis: Annie Lennox is a goddess. They don’t make divas like her anymore. Beyonce? Oh please.

Siete y ocho: Stuff I’m into re above.

You’d think that after a year’s worth of picture taking I’d learned how to do it without excessive flash. Maybe I need a new camera. “Entering the Stream” is a text on Buddhism. The rest should be self-explanatory [or Google-able].

Conjelado, te toca! — Stephen, David, Chris, JP and Earl, Lucy, Jason, Eric y Carl.

Pizza and Pride

Some pix from today’s festivities:

Mr. Straw Hat is Father Tony if memory serves.

Not the best angle unfortunately.

Ladies and Gentlemen, Senator Chuck Schumer. A pity Hillary decided to distance herself.

At around 5 pm, I called it quits and went to Otto for a light dinner.

Linguine con cazzo (mussels, lemon rind, tomato, garlic, saffron).

2004 Scarbolo Pinot Grigio, Friuli, Italy.

Pizza marinara. (tomatoes, garlic, chiles)

Trio of gelati: ricotta, strawberry, hazelnut stracciatella.

2005 Perrone Bigaro, Piemonte, Italy.

On Family, Part 5

Click here to read all the way back to the beginning.

I’ve been noodling around on Joe’s blog this morning and need to get things down before my thoughts disappear into the ether.  There are times like now when I think that I’m going senile because stuff that pops into my head doesn’t stay for long.

I’m hesitating making this post for a number of reasons.  Mostly because I’m not a very open person when it comes to writing about my personal life on this website thingy.

* * *

I find it difficult to talk to my mother.  A stranger on the street, in a bar, on a blog – it doesn’t really matter where, I have no problem.  I can be coy or verbose as I choose.  With my mother, things are different.

She once said, “You’re a very angry person.”  Damn straight I am.  I’m angry that I’m forced to slam the closet door shut whenever family comes over.  I’m angry that I have to live a lie in order to keep the peace.  A while back I visited her the weekend before my birthday.  We were sitting in her car at the train station, waiting for the shuttle back to New York.  I turned to her and said, “You place a lot of value on being honest with yourself.  You’re always telling me to ‘Just be yourself’.  Why can’t I when I’m with you or with family?”

I don’t remember exactly what she said in response but whatever it was, it hasn’t resolved the issue.  God forbid I start dating again because she’ll never accept that her son is gay.  She views it as a Great Tribulation.  And folks, ever since Michael died, it’s like Mom’s gotten more religious.  She prays for me constantly.  Prays that I’ll see the light and wake up one morning and not be gay anymore.  Asks why it’s her personal trial that her son isn’t straight.  She could be a grandmother and the family name would continue.  Gee, I always thought that if you were going to pray for someone, it’d be a genuine desire to help.  This must be why I’m a lapsed Catholic.  I’m too busy being a deviant to bother with domination mindgames.

I haven’t spoken to Mom in a few months.  She gets all huffy if I don’t call once a week.  Well, I haven’t spoken to her since February.  I can imagine the tongue lashing now.  She wants to have a meaningful relationship with me.  And I guess, on some level, I do as well.  But it’s tough going, it really is.  At 17, I left home; scratch that, I was thrown out of her house.  I literally had my belongings in garbage bags ready to be picked up at the curb the day after graduation from high school.  I had to grow up rather quickly and it wasn’t pretty, but I managed.  Three months in the Navy and a brief stint at Covenant House, then college while working fulltime. It’s been a grand adventure but one I’m loath to repeat. And now, nineteen years later, I find myself in the unusual position of trying to reconnect with someone I barely know, who refuses to acknowledge half of my existence.

Contact

As the waitress approaches me
at the station cafe, I don’t know
how to tell her
what it is I want

She lays down a menu and is gone
Coffee, I say when she returns
and please to her already turned back
as she steps over to the next table–
a traveler sips his tea
his story intact, no one to tell

He meets my eye
and we both glance quickly
to opposite windows
as if there was someone there

Magister

for Glenn

For Steven, life is
as the winter sky at night,
jewels scattered on a field
of sheer black silk.

Every work day,
gravity increases fourfold.
Teacher to eighth graders
on Columbus Avenue;
debt is an open maw.
Gotta babysit kids on Ritalin,
whose parents’ gravity
are also bumped up
a few notches.

The job is a grind,
but he loves
the rough and unpolished
emeralds and diamonds,
his kids, and they in their
rough and unpolished way,
love him in return.

If I could push
a button, be gone
from this planet
and all those families wouldn’t hurt,
I’d do it.

But Steven has his guitar.
He dreams of a life
where he can just make music.
When Steven plays,
he’s riding high on a rainbow
made from a thousand diamonds.
His songs mixed with
the breath of his muse,
are his gift to himself,
to me and to the world.

When the music is gone,
the gravity and button are back.
I’ll just lash myself to the mast.
One more year of teaching,
twelve more months ’till my masters;
I’ll get out of town,
I’ll get out of debt

back to the Adirondacks,
back to my guitar
amidst meadows filled with bluegrass
in heaven.