Tuesday, August 23, 2011

The Imbalance of Power

Efficiency is an enemy of redundancy which's why there's a discrepancy between superior and popular decisions. For every rethought belief which can correct errors requires idle time. If it's made up, why change your mind?

Wednesday, August 17, 2011

Ambassador

The men I was sent to, who I'm to pretend I'm a friend to, Arcadians, have become genuinely beloved.
My smile cuts further inward than my split face to a lightless place tears are spilled.
I pat Ambassador Ilthua on the back and nod as he leaves, rod in hand.
He believes a treaty will be signed between his kind and mine for fewer trade and travel restrictions.
Truly, the army is already on its' way.
I swallow and hear the stomp of rows of sandled feet clomping down the street.
300,000 footmen march through the Temal Straights with archers, riders, and chariots besides.
They will accept no surrender. They will see no Arcadian survives.
After lunch I am to be attending a meeting of dignitaries discussing nothing in particular.
I've forgotten my stomach.
In a bejeweled hall I am the only flesh and blood man living and standing surrounded by specters.

Thursday, August 11, 2011

Reliably Arable

August's auspices foretold a fell field.
Yet young husbands must hoe and hope for good yield,
though the frost has cost much and market prices bust.
Nothing grows in the stubborn soil.
It looks good to sow but is a swindle.
He'd thrown his savings into the dirt and nothing raised from the fallow earth.
Naught was given for working, for buying, nor as a gift.
His spirits would follow them were wheat shares to lift.
What's saved from last year would now be sold at a loss.
There's no time to spare as his wife grows ill.
She eats too little and the babe sups too much.
As a child, the farmer dreamed of sweet vittles, bunches of carrots spilling out
basket tops, potato spuds stopped at the horizon, onions as big as a man's head.
A chill wind spins dust.
The fresh farmer coughs.
The season of innocence was rent by parenthood.