Wednesday, May 30, 2012

The Road from Ruin: California Part 2

Jaye Beldo
Thursday, May 3, 2012

Death will be easy here. Ravines, runnels, ridges and the valley itself will funnel the miscreants in. Tweak whacked trash, guided by a revenant Jack rabbit we call The Messenger, will someday climb this high and break through the gate.  Haunts me all the time now.  Guy got three bullets in his head down the road last year. Not that far down from here I guess. Raven radar helps though, even in the fog shroud. Perk of canine ears in any direction has me reaching for a fire arm I don’t even have.

What drives them is easy to figure for they’re on the same death march as over 150 years ago. Whose hand the ace is in is still hard to tell though.

The abyss is my own gravestone, epitaph being a bottomless marl plummet right through the collective ravage down on the rez.
Eulogy a somber report some deputy far below can gauge the caliber of as he muses on the ensuing investigation and if it would be worth it going all the way to the top of Quail ridge. The Messenger may not even take any interest in it either, answering to some other blood or an earthquake echo or some vaporous release of the blackness the soil here still holds. Not enough shovel power to shed light on it though. Only the plants can break through it ,given they are the right strain.

Now, the clouds suck into some riverine foliage below a revealing alpine expanse on the other ridge, some lime light after burn, ignored by two legged pack mule ghosts clambering back into the past en route to Bloody Run creek. My host complains about the cost of potato salad and a distant Costco retribution over 2.5 hours away and that keeps me together. My penned and remembered bible quotes are tenuous in this kind of atmosphere.

Did some Job suffering in the barren and iced trailer this morning, 90’s d├ęcor conspiring betrayal, spelled out mostly in the wall paper, little paintbrush arcs of cold grey and brown, intended to break up the interior monotony but only rousing the absoluteness of the context itself which the sunlight sealed into ersatz permanency. My skeletal system, utterly racked by my sorrowed and quivering flesh, bore most of the brunt.

The resident Mockingbird provides counterpoint though via a prolix and doubled medley, a repertoire potpourri that only Messiaen himself could transcribe. The composition would be only be barked at the auction of this property after the Feds seized the composition, their helicopters smacked down by clouds turned into concrete via some umbrage mantra uttered by one of the birds completing a migration all the way from Columbia. It makes a nest egg out of the debris field, albeit inaccessible from this vantage. It would be a nice prize to snatch and dash away with and sell in town for sufficient gas money to escape.

Artists would freeze in this kind of light, unable to acclimate to such a mystique confine.

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