To the Can' -Ka No Rey Have I Come

On this day I have, finally, come to the end of a journey that has lasted nearly three years. It was a journey that was first traveled by another, starting in 1970, and finishing in 2004. Thousands, if not millions, of others have walked it before me, yet I don't feel that has diminished my own walking in the slightest; a walking through paths of paper and words. It is possible (even likely) that I will make this journey again sometime, though it will never, ever be the same as this first (I may pick things up that I did not before, and having walked it once, the same steps will not feel the same, of course, nor should they).

So now, I mark this moment, which has been long in the making, and will never come again (or will it?):

Childe Roland, to the Dark Tower, has come. Commala-come-come. And aye, it does me very fine. Say thankya, sai Stephen King, wordslinger.

Long days and pleasants nights.

Ink and Strings

Yesterday I thumbed through
A magic
Makeshift book
Plein de mots
(Full of words)
and Music.

Pressed between the pages of
Swing Low Sweet Chariot
and
A Wonderful World (from Good
Morning
Vietnam)

Lay a reminder:

Truth is found through fiction.
Make it up,
It's not real,
It's
More important
Than that.
It's the path to
The real.

Jean teaches me how I feel
About crime
and revenge.

Roland, how I feel
about purpose
and friendship
and a lazy mind.

Daniel, about
Love
and
Murder.

The things I see (say, synesthete) in the steady strike of a ride, and pulled strings (in that fingertouch time); the slowed motion, of something that
looks
like
real life;
The secret that might be found
In that house
If I just run with it (and build, crescendo)
And keep (finish) building.

Might I find you there, too?

(I hope so
I hope so)

The Begging Rain

A friend of mine just pointed me towards this piece by Gregory David Roberts, and I wanted to put it here, for sharing and posterity purposes.

***

The Begging Rain

Afterwards
when I am not with you
and you are alone enough
to count the nails in your heart,
tough
and studded like a treasure-house door,
when you arrange your silences
in the vase of an hour,
balancing the bouquet with memories
of hands held,
a spike of laughter
and the colour of my eyes,

when you sit within the swell
of your heartbeat
and the purple tide of daydream
laps at the shore of all your selves,
and your skin sings, perfume-pierced,

Afterwards,
surrender to this thought of me:
as the mimosas of Maharashtra in May
long for monsoon
I long for you;
as the crimson cactus flowers of Thar
long for full moon
I long for you,
and in all my afterwards,
when I am not with you,
my heart turns toward the window of my life
and begs for rain.