The Border Kingdom
We drive the dusty road
east from the mountains toward
the flat land not divulging
any secrets from this distance.
Still morning the intense sun
withers fallen vegetation and
quickly dissipates dew clinging to
cactus needles.
We have not spoken since the pass
surveying what we left behind
and the horizon leading elsewhere.
I doubt my father was ever here
and images of snow-capped mountains
clear sand-bottomed lakes, roaming
herds of cattle and horses
became glorified cartoons, almost
legends, like the Lone Ranger and Tonto
Jesse James and his gang
in the 6-year old mind.
Thousands of acres stretch either side
open fields wire fenced yet empty
arid, harsh wind blows dirt and small
stones, tumbleweed across the road.
I turn to speak anything, to comment
on the traffic, and I think you were
asleep, at least drifted beyond the
shared space - I decide to remain quiet.
Morning sun has become the afternoon
companion we now follow as the road
veered left and west and into
a bowl – chasing the road rising.
I forget in scattered fragments
why this landscape has become the
backdrop and focus of a once budding
relationship deteriorating with each hour.
Mile 418. Unfolded, stained, torn map
found in the garbage at the
last gas station says there is a town near
and a river. I see only tar and dirt.
I remember the first glimpse of
your olive skin beneath the black dress,
a large pinkish rose adorned the front
and the catwalk you made in my direction.
I remember watching grayish skeleton limbs
against milky blue backdrop through
quarter sliced windows
while you slept, fetal, on the
black leather couch you brought with
next to the dog you desired.
Your struggle became
more apparent to fit
two separate lives
until I relented.
I imagine not God's kingdom
behind pearled gates transcended from mortal forms
meshed with forward singular time
wrapped in fear and repentance
but a kingdom earth bound
free of time, free of the wind
torn sands. Here dreams flow
spherically with no sense of direction.
And in the last dream I remember
the river flows beneath skipping feet
chasing prophecies and false prophets
spoken words and brutal lies.
I see life fading away, fading into vastness
I try to pull the visible strings together.
I see a painted face in the sky above,
one of the many angry gods of war.
I wave the white flag standing within the murky waters.
Steam from the battle’s aftermath
rises around my throat as the once black sky turns blood red.
Stained rocks lie beneath the flowing river of souls.
I see fire building
across the open field
and briefly invent an
overgrown empty field burning
the willow tree left
scarred and aware.
Before the shift
rumors crept into conversations
of the border kingdom
high in the mountains
city of mist and rain
immune to desert wind and
not at the sun’s mercy.
Even the name gives birth
to images of purity and salvation.
In the dark days
darkened by doubt
time slows, lengthens
pause between beats,
the space pulls strings
emerging from the mind
and eventually each pore
turning you inside out
until you do not know
you. Who is that in the mirror
and why are you staring at me?
What is this you are showing me?
That is not real, that is not me.
In your eyes you have one truth,
in mine I have another. What separates us
besides the glass mirror?
My faith began to waver
when grandpa passed.
Years spent building a foundation
enforced by dreams of winter
laying nuclear ash upon the
ground, vanished
when the physical self
released the soul.
We have become God's of
individual domains defined by the
things acquired, captured, and scored.
I listen to words of peers and words of teachers.
The shaman speaks of reality and no reality, of mind control,
of the matrix infiltrating mind and spirit and becoming sleep,
unaware, lost, wandering that dark black path
through an empty field yet not realizing the empty field
is empty, the reasons for being empty, is the true path,
is our own creation.
I listen to these words and in
the same breath know there is no
one way through the everlasting shift,
searching for my own salvation.
Like fragments
I choose the pieces that make sense
that ease the deep fire burning within.
This fire I must learn to harness,
to control, to bend, to shape
until I become the shape shifter.
We approach the border -
a wide river moving swift and cold -
and stop. Both looking through the
bug-encrusted windshield and our hands touch
to remember this last speck of civilization.
I used to dream day and night
of flying above the clouds into
upper reaches of the atmosphere closer
to other borders, other layers
of various gases, closer to the burning
sun and becoming cold and frozen
until a different light skewed
my vision and stripped everything away
and I was able to fly unburdened and free.
I pause briefly just before
the bridge, a final thought
to be discarded, one less
burden we must bring with us.
We cross the border under
the new moon with shadows locked
safely away, to be revealed
when reaching the kingdom.
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Bill is a writer of experimental poems and essays about nature and awareness with publishing credits that include: A View from the Loft, The Edge, Whistling Shade, Paper Darts, Primalzine, Whispering Angel, Kinship of Rivers, Seven Circle Press, and Lief Magazine. He is also the poetry editor for The Edge magazine and founding editor of Stone Path Review.
