The man is taken to task; better said, he’s taken up with his task.
His hands bend like claws and stretch out again, methodically carving his way in the world. Ages when he would swing a hammer, and shape the hot, sparking hot metals are gone; the small fires set in the hay of the floor, they are long out and long dead; but still, this man bends himself as others would bend iron and steel; copper. The bellows now, they don’t work but as lungs, and the plowshares all remain as swords.
The man, now, no, no longer a blacksmith of metals, he carves his way in stone and chisel. Verily he sends the stones flying, winged for all of a second, before the earth again claims her own, and sends the dust back to dust. Ages pass again, and the stonework has all crumbled; no mortar or mortal stands the test of time; and we both collapse under the weight of nothing else. And carves his way he does, into earth and past, he marks time going by at the chip of the stone, the same flying and falling rhythm that life itself will take for him, a brief upswing and a long fall down.
I had a dream, where I followed the flight of broken stone, the sparks to the floor of heated metal. But now, no, the man worked not stone nor steel, now he brought life to paper and parchment; colors and swirls in broken, shattered rock, powdered metals suspended, like mud, in oils, in leads, in altering substances. Oh, but this man, he did drink of pewter goblets and the man, oh how he did go delightfully mad in the end; but the end matters not when the middle is so rich and full and even held fast aloft. Not the spark or chip of stunned stone, but suspended up and bewilderment spreading over, and encompassing anyone who dares try to take up the chisel or hammer or anvil or brushstroke to follow the men that went before.
The secret to genius is staving off the madness; holding back the heavy metals that rob your mind, the lead in the paint that you absorb into your skin, the drugs you mix with the alcohol. The lightheaded connection with God that everyone thinks they feel as they are flailing toward the infinity that comes with success; the immortality of being the best, and the amazement of those you leave in your wake.
But there are no painters of words, no ageless blacksmith for whom the anvil rings with binding and typesets.
There are no more beginnings to start from, no skittering of insects feet, no darkness, no storms of the soul or body that let the font flow, a river’s head. No secrets lie left, even in God, the world has been answered, the innumerable questions asked. To expose something now, to advance something now, is to be a Creator, a self made god, for there are no longer men to compare to.
They’ve all gone mad, their mind bent inward like driven nails into knotty wood, halfway in until they burst to the side.
Burst, and for the life of me, I swear I remember how the man made nails, anvil and hammer, bent them back, running the fumes and liquid death into molds, cut them free and drowned them, held them, and then drove them home.
And in the anvil, I can again see the face, the genius holding back the madness. But wishing for the forging of the two, finally to feel the whole again, the whole that I feel when both halves finally hold onto me again; force me to my feet.
I’ve lived this wasted life, and I’ve been to this place before.
All the sorrow lost, all the clarity lost, all the endings carved
In the flying, ending, empty stone and broken perspectives.
And in the bellows, in the lungs that breathe the smoke, I can feed a fire, scorching the skin and hair and life from bones, heading the ash again until the ringing in my ears is absolutely the only thing left of me.
It comes quickly, the end, as it crashes, as it dreams the rapist’s dream. Their eyes close and once again you are a predator, why not stalk, circle strike, around and again and again, there’s no breathing now, no empty words, only carried groceries that make it sound like you are a real human being; no, you got behind the wheel while we drove away, and what were you then? Hadn’t you been drinking?
Hell yeah, I’m the ending and the beginnings, you all found yourself here in me, yes I am. The anvil, oh, wouldn’t you love to have been right off that? Fired in your own soul and then made of the solidest metals, molted together, poured off and found to be softer, warmer, solid and pliable both, so
Hell yeah, I’m running away, with you hot on my heels; dogs to the fox, chasing their tail. Hounds to the horses and riders, to the burrows, grounded, safety, and skittering over empty rock walls and fields. You know how they run Greyhounds round that track? The white rabbit is no worse than the red run we hold, horns to the heavens and
Hell yeah, I’m fighting the gauntlet, I know the ending, I know the beginning, stand and fight because it is the last thing that anyone ever does, no anvil ever broke against the metals, and you can flame and sputter and die in the trying, failing to realize.
Turn around; the only way out is toward the goal, toward the enemy. Don’t look for cover when you can dodge bullets and bend the knives against your ribcage, the gate, the garden, they all force you the same way, and it’s into the self with you, a finality that no one is ready for, but that everyone turns to.
You told me you had trouble breathing, it wasn’t for lack of trying but I know you’ll always work out right, though it is the wrong day, and the seasons have just opened up on you. You were the backward talker, you were the one that crabwalked down the stairs; exorcised on film, you were Linda Blair, and there was only one. But your mother’s in here, oh yes, and I’ll write backwards on the inside of my flesh, you can read this inside out and be filled with that dread, a nice day for a party isn’t it?
You claim that we’ve already lost each other, I say that my own end is near; in our own way, we finally agree and it makes me cry; the anvil shudders, the canvas rips, the alcohol wears off, the drunk finally realizes what was made of his dreams, and at last, giving up finally makes me only want to keep going.
It was never the metal, never the stone, never the paint that ended the genius with madness; the tools are only used, the ambition is what kills. The desire to leave something behind is what ruins. Pride, in the end, is the worst; all else can begin and end with others. Pride, in the end, stops where it began, nestled deep and solid, and wanting immortality at the cost of death.