The sky rumbles, the wet smell of calamity broods on the horizon. Domestic fires glow in fireplace; meals are scraped into trash—soothing waves of time lap at my naked feet, reclined in chair, unaware of the great journey, unprepared to place soft heel on coarse ground and drudge into the coiling madness, unnecessarily acquainted with discomfort and solitude.

Ah, the righteous path! It comes quickly: fury and merciless tragedy thrust me into a great comedy of unexpected sadness—lost and silent, woefully unprepared for the world on new terms. I learned to live on nothing, bitter flowers plucked and left under pillow, clay and dry-bone extracted from a lie. The nectar of life that wets my lips sours, a harsh vinegar churned with cold hands!

Who are you now–after being lost? The shrill voice of self-doubt wakes me from the great slumber. I place my ear to the ground and hear the vibrations of a life lost, years wasted—words traded for shiny rocks and bits of paper, meaningless! Meaningless! My soul is in the valley where I sit silently listening to the slow rotation of the earth, the everlasting song that only the enlightened hear. It beckons me.

Jasper Kerkau



This is the post excerpt.


Would I give up my torment for a better life?  Trade my constricted words for laughter at restaurants with jovial sorts with funny handshakes and antidotes about country life. I could chemically alter the color of my walls and meet a charming girl with a big smile and hearty laugh who will take down all my art, replace it with funny phrases painted on plaques made out of driftwood. She could lead my around by my thumb, put me in pastel shirts and feed me to a congregation of hungry Mexican food eating Presbyterians  with good intentions. Maybe I could work up to being a people person and start watching the weather, get a favorite sports team and have heated arguments with co-workers over draft picks.

Could I sacrifice my darkness for happiness? I could let my doctor have his way, cleanse my mind, lose Thomas Wolfe, the eternal quest for home, the desire to walk among the downtrodden, handing in my bona fides for junk food culture and political identification which leads to more arguments. Maybe I could just catch my breath, become acquainted with the recliner, let my troubles wash away, turn from the wicked, press my face against institutional carpet, let God’s mercy pour over me as I bask in the glow of chemically manifested nothing. They are circling me with lab coats, wanting to squeeze all the labored thought out of me, but what will I have left? I stand with darkness!

Jasper Kerkau