Stargazer

StarGazer

StarGazer          (for Nonthaybo)

 

You, of all people,

should have known better

than to try and lasso

one like me…

 

You, a Khosian,

ancient wayfarers—

as were my Celts

or Hunkpapa Sioux…

 

Mustangs too wild

to be broken—powerful necks,

noble heads reared high, disdainful

of bit and bridle…Stargazers…

 

 

Caged Venus,

slavenamed

Hottentot…Cagey

Irish warrior righ

 

Vercingteroix, made

a slave, in exchange

or his besieged people…

For two years Caesar’s might

 

 

 

of Empire’d encircled—spiders

in a military web…Taken

to Rome, in a cage, paraded

about as the once ferocious

 

 

 

barbarian brought low, poked

at with sticks by the easily amused

bread & blood crowd. To commemorate

one of “Caesar’s” triumphs,

 

 

 

 

 

cut open and ropes of bowels

draped on the alter

of the demons

their statecraft claimed God…

 

 

 

You with your Biko

should have known better

than to love one

as banned as me…

 

 

 

 

Still I must tell you

 

that when you and your young man

came into my life,

magic ruled my moments

 

 

 

once again…

No matter how tough

and gruff I might get

your smile was always easy…

 

 

Even when you’d scold me—

my grandfather always…or

my father never had to…I’d smile,

in some unspoken bond we seem to share…

 

 

As mine own grandfather would say—

remember, lad, someday one of these

fools with sticks is going to discover

the cage door’s no longer latched…

 

 

 

And then the lion will roar…

Begorrah & Aghora

(for the Muses, ever-present, as always) –”To redeem all sorrows That ever I have felt…” William Shakespeare, King Lear, V,iii (Historical note: Celtic Britain, according to Gildas, in his “The Ruin of Britain,” circa 550 A.D., around the time of the legendary King Arthur’s death, was beset by the mysterious Plague of the Yellow Beast Vapors and subject to rule by a succession of petty tyrannos…) ow hear ye a tale sad and bitter, of Camelaut’s glory long ago; as it waned good Queen Gueneviere through treachery was laid low… Her love for her great-hearted King Arthur fine and pure indeed; her noble heart giving rise to action as she beheld their lands, newly-joined, fall prey to envy…(of even the King’s steed!) Master White Horse, as his warrior stallion was called, guided our good king through twelve battles quite fierce; as they “glutted black ravens” and vanquished the invading “hang-dogs,” Arthur protected by the Shield of Madonna, which no spear could pierce Four battles alone fought along the icy Black Stream sheltering the barbarous Saxons of invading Colgrin; that infernal puer and his Cold Grin of Death ravishing the lands, as he pooh-poohed the “boy-King” Arthur with, What, he’ll kick me in the shin? Hollow words indeed when reed-thin (yet tall) Arthur thwarted the little beast– Colgrin claiming somehow that Britain was responsible for his Continent’s woes; upon counsel Arthur permitted Colgrin safe departure, yet when the foolish “swine-devil” relanded down the coast, they were promptly routed, Arthur smiting 400 other foes…  Good King Arthur’s great deeds in service to his people(s) culminating most Christ-like at the Battle of Mount; the Shroud as his raiment, his Shield bearing the Cross three war-long days… (leading poor Gueneviere to bemoan, years later, “How is it that feat does not count?) till, for now, look upon our hero, mired knee-deep in mud, far away from his dear sweet Queen, as he defends the homeland; clashing with such River Styx-cold barbarians–the Season of fading light, his warriors having such difficulties making a stand… At home, a short while back, Camelaut of the Round had become besieged, from without and within, as emissaries from Rome arrived all purple-clad– as garishly offensive to Arthur’s emerald-green court as their demands, to which he’d scoffed, Tribute to Lucius, your “Emperor”? Why you must be mad!… You see, unbeknownst to Arthur, a collaboration was in the works– due to Merdrawt, the cunningly forged off-spring of Morgan Le Fay, that she-devil witch, as both claimed relationship to Arthur, the orphaned King, and pretended              to be his friend (saving him, understand, from Gueneviere, whom they ‘d termed, “the             stuck-up bitch”) Not only to Lucius but too the Saxons had spoiled little Merdrawt turned– ala that previous usurper, Vortigern of the Repulsive Lips, again promising these mercenaries prime lands and “plenty of loot and whores for your fleets of ships” When Arthur’s druid scouts gave warning he set out for Dover, determined to repel the invaders before their landing (remembering, too, how he’d bested their Plague of Preciousness as a lad, having vowed to never again let interlopers have any standing…) Yet against our good king, in league with Merdrawt, were many brutes– this brat, no true nephew like Gawain, but a false accuser, more like                     the Antichrist himself; most irksome was his sidekick, an over-grown lunk, Dagonet, whom Arthur’d termed The Fool, at times a “jester” most melodramatically servile, but in no ways a mere “elf”… Somehow this crescent-eyed, pasty-face knave had knock-kneed his way upon Merlin the Druid’s secret cottage; the sacred texts discrediting Merantorio’s alchemy thus pirated, as the Fool loosed ghastly black magick “mish-takes” he swore he’d fix inna smidge. In conjunction with Merdrawt and Le Fay the covetous witch, this shifty-footed Fool turned sorcerer–just a wannabe druid, under tutelage of Kundrie the crone as he played with potions and powders and spellcastings, supposing, If I can just find dat right fluid… So, with Arthur afield and not able to set all straight, his true sweet Gueneviere was completely at a loss, not able to end this plague loosed by the snot-nosed Fool– as he spread ignorance throughout the Kingdom with his Judas-like dross… Arthur’s trusted knight Lancelot, left to protect the Queen, thought to assist, yet the Fool posed such a problem–no warrior, but a hump-backed geek, vicious as a cur when terrorizing the farmers at field, then, at the Court, dissembling himself as most humble and meek. ow, with the people(s) conjoined sinking into the Fool’s cosmic muck, “Sir” Merdrawt, the connivingly forged off-spring, invented a devilish parody mirroring the Round Table– too, an ingenious scenario to cuckold the King!… Those of Heaven’s Round Table saw the sacred circle mocked– as Camelaut, through obeisance to Merdrawt’s Over-lords of the Directions, fell prey to Lucifer; Lugh’s pure Light turned quagmires ill-lit, Camelaut and her people turned parodies, as those true still could only pray for the return of Arthur. Through Cabal and other canine warrior-scouts, thus fortunate Arthur learned the whole treacherous plan; all knew not to question as they double-marched home–as an enraged Arthur told Merdrawt, Now you’ll learn the measure of this man! And too the mealy-mouthed Fool’s deceit had managed to convince the “common voice” that Arthur’s dear Queen was actually a fake; high and low swore to the falseness of Gueneviere as a black-magick-enchantress, You see, the Fool lisped, the real Queen’s in hiding, this one’s a snake … Merdrawt in his perfidiousness had indeed been busy– not content with his brazen theft of Sovereignty’s Round Table, he had all swear to Arthur’s dear sweet Queen’s infidelity… Why, said one churl, wid me own eyes I once seen her do it with Cabal! Preposterous! thundered Arthur, when told all this lunacy–perplexed as well by this Kult of Kundrie, as all toasted these hellish, joyous “Overlords” in a sad new Wasteland; drinking strange brews (too bitter) that mudsucked one as further rape of Sovereignty– Arthur left fuming as to how he’d defend his good Queen, Why, there   I’ll make my last stand… Refusing to believe that Guenevier and Lancelot had betrayed him, Arthur, at dinner table, found himself alone against drawn swords one night; Merdrawt, the witch Le Fay and the Fool, through wolfish cunning, put Arthur at such disadvantage he yielded without a fight. Then, enroute to conference, the Fool grew brash– prancingly nervous, he struck with brandished sword the captive King on back  of head; Arthur was sent tumbling, the knaves dragged him to the dungeon then         seized open his mouth, pouring in Kundrie’s potions and readying a lookalike in his Queen’s stead. Despite this induced groggy daze, Arthur awoke in full-eyed rage– paying scant attention to the phony Queen’s (no Fair White Apparition) confession of lusty sin, yet wary and aware of black-cloaked Le Fay, the dagger-eyed coven of haggardly-bent crones, mumbling spellcastings in search of his secrets that made his head pound with din… While treason most foul thus dimmed fair Camelaut, Lancelot, good Queen Gueneviere and loyal (too) Gawain took flight; Bedevier and Lucan the Butler were left to keep watch, discreet as can be ’till Gawain regrouped the Warrior Circle under cover                  of night. Though Gawain found the country gloomy and war torn with strife, Arthur’s true knights joined back up, as Gawain’s dire predictions weighed heavily on all; together again they sped back towards Edinburgh, Camelaut’s Winter Seat,         in such haste that Merdrawt–tipped off, took flight, seeing the handwriting on the wall. As Arthur was freed he was told grave news– to the south the Saxons, with doltish Visigoths as muscle, had been striking  at will; Merdrawt’s collaboration having corrupted so-called nobles, as Colgrin’s accursed malaise again was making his people so ill… With word coming from Lancelot and Gueneviere that they were now safe, Arthur assembled the Warrior Circle and those still loyal; in grim terse tones he organized an expedition, proving, once again, his love for his people most royal. Seeking to cut off the invader’s provisions at the source, the expedition set out for the coast– Arthur raising a fleet, readying his ship Prydwen, then crossing the sea; mid-voyage one storm-tossed night gave rise to a dream most strange, himself a huge fiery dragon giving fight…How can that be me! Pendragon the Mighty, his father Uther’s lineage, swooping from Heaven, laying talons to the tallowed back of a weasel-eyed bear; then, with a great lift of beating wings, throwing the fatted bulk to the sea-beasts of deep…There, now see how you fare! Thus encouraged Arthur awoke at first light, his foresight of the Saxons a mere transition to Lucius and Rome; this early mood more usual as he brimmed with mirth–downplaying, too,          the long trek ahead, shouting, We’ll reclaim our throne, then just as quickly march home! Setting forth in France, the shape-shifter Menw and the other scouts quickly spotted the Saxons encamped–standards of Roman legions,                 and others, too: Saracens of Mongolian suits of mail, the rulers and armies                                           of Libya, Ethiopia… ogres huger than Visigoths, one-eyed giants with monstrous heads        purplishly-blue… Emboldened by his vision the night before in battle Arthur was most              brave, as he chopped an ogre off at the knees, saying, “You bare-legged churl! Now you’re more of a size!”… (Then beheading the brute). Wheeling Master White Horse about, Arthur next chose to give Lucius                      a whirl… Though pike-armed the bodyguard proved no match, as Arthur drew a lance thrust to his left cheek, before Caliburn his broadsword struck quick to the ruler’s helmet, shattering tiara and skull alike in a mighty blow–making even the giant’s     knees weak. Perhaps thus inspired, pretty boy Galeheut dashed through the Saracens– spilling the brains of the Libyan leader with one blow; thus Galeheut struck awe and terror all the way to Paris, where, with Arthur et al, he sipped the finest wines… (all enemies laid low). The Warriors of the Sacred Circle now marched straight into Rome, word having gone before they were given the Key to the City, as all                 bowed down; Arthur’s true title as Emperor thus reclaimed– and, more importantly, his beloved Celts never again to be misjudged                    as clown… Still, as they turned weary heads towards home none could know what dark treachery lay yet in store; Merdrawt the treasonous brat had indeed been bitten with ambition, this taste of power in Arthur’s absence having induced craving for more. Letters were drawn up as if they came from the Continent, reporting Arthur dead in battle and Lancelot now a “turncoat”; flunkies were dispatched far and wide through the lands announcing                    the end      of “Arthur’s strife,” then contrasted with Kundrie et al’s coven–a new deal of “joy and bliss” (schmirking in full gloat) At Canterbury Merdrawt’s “parliament” of stooges crowned the brat “king,” and he, certain the “common voice” deceived, began a “fifteen day glut”; when word of Arthur’s imminent return reached Merdrawt he cackled, Not to worry, we’ll oppose him at Dover and tell him the how’s of his Queen the slut… ow see how Arthur was made a mere foil for that foul                              wretch Merdrawt, who burned with hate about Guenevier (Arthur’s joy and bliss); Merdrawt, too, managed to slander Arthur’s good true                                           friend Sir Lancelot, as the brat claimed that Lancelot had fallen prey to                                                      the snake-bitch-queen’s every hiss. To greet Arthur upon his return landing at Dover, Merdrawt assembled many cohorts to oppose; though the cool calm fury of Arthur disembarking slew                                     “barons and nobles” alike, as Arthur’s knights, too, with great courage, each repelled droves. Beaten back, Merdrawt and his remnants took flight                                                    to Barham Down…As Arthur, scanning the meadow left ruined, found Gawain, his true nephew,                             of whom he was most proud; in great haste Arthur stumbled across many other friends laying                          wounded or dead– then our Arthur, “the most famous knight in the worlds,” finally wept                   long and loud… Further search turned up wounded knights in nearby towns, along the way in trailing that coward Merdrawt to Canterbury; to each knight thus found he worked “soft salves” into the wounds, humming soothing bardic hymns, assuring each, Why, there’s no hurry… Called to council at Salisbury by the seaside, a severe and stern Arthur refused Merdrawt’s cockatrice overtures; as war the Monday after Trinity Sunday was agreed upon by all– then Arthur, departing, intoned, “Now you’ll pay for calling my Queen                      a hoo-uer…” Come Trinity Sunday, that night gave rise to another wondrous dream: Arthur astride a throne, beneath a Great Wheel; teeming below was “hideous deep black water,’ with “all manner                               of serpents and worms, wild beasts, and most foul and horrible,” some deformed                 snail-eel. Upon billows of cloud shimmered Gawain, all around him radiant Ladies, “By the grace of their great prayer,” said he, “and my righteous quarrels on their behalf, through leave of God,                               I must say: to battle you must await good Lancelot–without him your death                                is a certainty”… nbeknownst to Arthur his dear Queen Guenevier had                                      the same dream, as she, in the Tower of London, besieged by the machiavel Le Fay,                        was about to fall; so she urged pure Lancelot to speed through the night to join Arthur, taking enough knights with him to ensure, as they’d sworn,                                Justice for all!… The next day at the treaty meeting Arthur was wisely astute– as he’d been told by his tracking scouts he face 100,000, a “grim host”; Arthur thus conceded Cornwall and Kent, and, after his death, “all England” too– thinking the deal a bargain, thanking Heaven for his true nephew’s ghost. Yet the blackness of Merdrawt’s being lusted after far more than a treaty– per plan, he had a minion loose an adder, and, as it bit one of Arthur’s knights, swords drew all around, “beamons trumpets” were sounded far and wide… With gloomy dismay Arthur saw there was nothing left but to fight… In battle, as the war horses grew mired in blood and mud, many were slew… Late in the day, Arthur stood nearly alone; left with just Lucan the Butler, his brother Bedevier, both “full sore wounded”– twas then Merdrawt finally rode forth (his drawn sword all shiny and freshly honed) Catching sight of the pasty-faced puff of Merdrawt’s cheeks, Arthur rode full bore–seeking to end “this wicked day of destiny” he struck straight to the heart with his cured-ash lance (suffering a head wound from Merdrawt’s blade, but ending the accursed usurper’s luck). From over a crest of hill Lancelot and knights then arrived to assist…       Charging afresh, despite having ridden through the night, they laid waste to what remained; when Lancelot distinguished Arthur lying wounded he spurred his steed to him, easing his King’s pain with, “Good Sir, each eve your true Queen’s pillow is     tear-stained…” Lancelot’s warriors gathered the injured–many wandering, crying like children. Camp was made while Lancelot healed Arthur and the others most brave; Arthur drifted between Life and Death, trying to rise and save my Queen, muttering, too, “Humph, at least now Merdrawt’s exposed as a knave…” n the third morning Arthur arose as if nothing amiss. Though greatly bloodied, he mounted Master White Horse as if to head home; when Lancelot and all discovered his absence they gave chase–                                to Merdrawt’s annexed castle, from whose gate flew Le Fay–Medusa! turning                                 Arthur’s heart to stone… “You’re too late Arthur!” the alchemically-befouled hag screeched, “Your sweetness is gone!” Faint from the blood loss Arthur fell, toppled from Master White Horse, as Le Fay and entourage flew… Then, as Arthur gained height, his spirit collapsed…Why that she-beast           from Hell… A few farmers faithful still gathered around, saying, Good King take heart– Le Fay and her knaves threw poor Queen Gueneviere into the Pit” (an earthen tomb filled with imported snakes, an invention of Merdrawt’s, of which Arthur’d heard, cursing Just like the spoiled little shit). Unable to bear the sight of Gueneviere’s lifeless form, he staggered towards the Castle’s gate, glaring at all in full fury; tossing his ruby and pearl-ringed battle helmet behind, he spat an Eternal Curse, come to your rescue? Why, of course, not to worry… Lancelot arriving had witnessed the fearful news, and he too slumped to the ground, all overcome with grief; Arthur turned to his dear friend, said, “Nothing can we do, yet you must accompany me…I’ve one more task ‘ere I seek relief…” Together they journeyed back to Edinburgh, Winter Seat of Camelaut, and rode to the Springs of Mystery, the Lake of the Oak Grove–                       where both prayed that God be merciful on Gueneviere, their good true Queen, and, too, through the Fair Lady of the Lake, a special peace be made… Then Arthur drew Caliburn one last time, and knelt, bended knee, touching the begrimed and nicked blade to his bowed,                                    furrowed-brow head; rising, with a mighty heave, he tossed the great broadsword far, swearing Never again would he fight for another, a vow he kept until dead… Splaying end over end the sword flew far–then was snatched, suddenly,         mid-air by a long white arm and smooth hand surging forth from ripples on the Lake; as mysteriously as her hand appeared all vanished beneath–still, save rustlings of leaves… Then Arthur told his good friend, All done now, from here your own way           must you make. hough this tale happened long ago, some from the Olde Land                     declare to this day that Arthur, great and gloomy, still roams, muttering,                                       through the countryside, thundering again at the weasel-eyed knaves, Do you know who I am! Eternally a question, aye, one for all times, in which all must abide…   James Archer, Death of Arthur       [Some material, in quotes, comes from Le morte d'Arthur, by Sir Thomas Malory, additional story material from Geoffrey of Monmouth; the "completion" of the story line, however, was accomplished through "the Muses," as those daughters of Zeus and Memory were known to the ancient Greeks--the "primary instigators" being Yeshe Tsogyal, the star pupil of our Guru Je Rinpoche, Padmasambhava the Buddha--700's A.D. noble Indian who travelled to Tibet), and, too, Mandarava, Padmasambhava's other chief "Knowledge Woman," as he was blessed with 13 of these gracious tertons...Their work supplemented by mine own research from the aforementioned Gildas, along with the Book of Leinster, the Book of Invasions (Celts have been invaded, though, until recently, never successfully, more times than any other culture in History), the Black Book of Carmarthan, the Vita Gildae, Coutes Ossiaiques, by R. Chauvre, Celtic Folklore by John Rhys, the sbustantial works of R.S. Loomis, and, last but not least,the court lore of Eleanor of Aquitaine and Marie de Champagne...T.F.N., written 1993-4, original revision 5/16/94, updates 12/6-10/96;12/8/97] Back to Tamo’s Main Page… John Mullaster Carrick’s Morte de Arthur (1862)

TRAVELOGUE (BLUES CHORUS#32)

TRAVELOGUE (BLUES CHORUS#32)

Pale red sun rising

waterly–an eastern expanse

of purple sage and scrub pine

starting to shimmer in the desert morning…

Fresh yellow and green buds, still moist

from the cool night, on the pine

betray the desolation beyond–an “Indian” reservation,

sun-scorched shanties, bleached bones of graveyard cars and trucks…

A small untidy blight

lodged between the highway billboards

for turquoise and onyx trading posts

just ahead…

 

 

A nation in motion–

the past Sunday the sleek cabined semis

were lined up a dozen deep

at the “Love’s” truck stop…

On the four Interstate lanes of new asphalt

RV’s whiz by in tinted glass

and air-conditioned isolation.

In the neat rows of pumps, our Volvo–

its rear cross-hatched with feminist bumper stickers–

seems quaint…

Earlier we rolled past

casino after casino–

monuments to possibility–

however long shot it may be.

Semis and RV’s filled the parking lots

(like worker bees around an artificial honeycomb)…

Dropping down through Nevada,

the sun danced along

the straight line of tarmac

stretched to the horizon…

Not much on either side

except square-holed, weed-filled ghosts,

vacant reminders

of Westward Ho!

Las Vegas itself

resplendent with sprawling new

subdivision after subdivision.

Plenty of newly prosperous–

perhaps our country’s “non-believers”

paying homage

at the alter

of that roulette Wheel of Fortuna…

A t Santa Fe we skipped

the merchant’s Canyon, with its

exquisitely crafted turquoise and silver,

in favor of the Georgia O’Keefe museum. Inside

the time-wrinkled sandstone hills about us–

dotted with green pine, log and peach-tinted adobe houses–

were transformed by the soft blends of her colorful vision

into vulvas, a desert abloom with delicate wildflowers…

Winding along the Rio Grande,

amongst sun-darkened boulders and skree,

we arrive in magical Taos.

Sitting in the legendary Rainbow Room–

in overstuffed chairs beneath a crooked bamboo ceiling,

the one time literary sanctuary

cool and still inside the huge, hogan-like walls,

still pregnant with philosophical conversation, I wonder

Where have all the Mabel Dodge’s gone?…

D owntown, the galleries full of knock-off O’Keefe’s,

the cute stores full of expensive curios,

the over-priced atmospheric restaurants

fail to garner our attention.

So we drive out the legendary roustabout

Kit Carson’s Way–on the steep hills around us

tall jack pines, poplars beginning to blaze

with early gold…

Here and there, amidst the big modern

art and pottery studios–

and the “Moon Valley” RV Park

(a broad flat patch of crushed granite

next to the new golf course)

sit rusted-yellow school buses

tucked into nooks and crannies

of someone’s notion of a homestead…

In the rear window of one

hangs tattered

rainbow shards

of a shade…

 

 

D eep in the National Forest

we camp for the night

at a trailhead

beneath a dark expanse breathtaking with stars.

In the morning, walking the frost-glazed trail,

I see three huge black crows take flight–one turning

in the mountain-blue air above. As if arcing

protective wings, towards the mist of the valley below…

Apocalypse Now (early Coppola version)

My Life Now

 

 

                             My Life Now

 

                             Hundred year-old wrought iron,

                             handholds for so many,

                             the black enamel chipped

                             by rust and corrosion,

                             revealing old layer upon layer

                             of more colorful paint…

 

                             The conifers behind

                             stand upon the stream’s bank—

                             guardians themselves, in gentle

                             contrast waving tiny green sprigs.

                             Some have browned from the season.

 

                             Up red brick steps first one foot,

                             then the other…

 

                             This ritual one done

                             countless times over my increasing years.

                             Heavy ochre of clay lined into squares

                             giving way to the parabolic curves

                             of the sandy Florentine ceiling atop–

                             my relief, my brief respite,

                             my quick breath of awe in the hallway

 

                             before the somber mottled grey bulk

                             of the Campenile. Beneath those huge

                             Roman-numeral`d clock hands and face

                             is a sundial. From the Class of 1877.

                    1996’s Class burnished the bronze plate beneath,

                   smoothing it of time’s accretion of green corrosion.

                     Nonetheless the cracks and grooves rough-hewn

                             to my fingertips’ touch…

 

                             I look up, and in the chilly mist before me

                  gloomy old Abe’s bronze bust peers down sourly—

                             a fitting repose this President’s Day,

                             his visage run ghoulishly green and grim.

 

                             I turn and walk down the gentle grade

                             towards the most beautiful room on campus.

                   Beneath its majestic ceiling—well-aged golden gilt

                       patterned in  blossoming flowers, deep-ridged

       crosses in mandalas, the expanse highlit by an entire wall

                             of stacked window panes—

                             is where I do my best work…

 

                          Before me now, off in one last distant glimpse

                             before I pass through the library’s portal,

              stands one solitary arch of the Golden Gate Bridge—

                             the other lost in the uncertain fog of horizon.

 

                             This life is mine now.

                             With uncanny certainty,

                  bemusement at the years having never realized it,

                             this life, now, is mine.

 

The Judean Terror

THE JUDEAN TERROR

For one-hundreth of the price that had been paid by the freeman Atilus to bring this gladiator into his ludi, another man would fatally betray him…

Yet this time was still to come. In another land, far away from this ampitheater. One just a short journey from Rome, filled with munera fans eager to see the games neglected by the Emperor Tiberius.

As The Judean Terror wrapped the long linen straps to pad his ankles and calves, others of his ludi watched. At first mockingly billed as The Judean Terror, this one in short order had become the featured performer. Outside, up the dreaded ramp to the hot, shifting sands of the arena—always burning the soles of one’s feet no matter how callused—cries of impatience jeered the preliminary event’s contestants.

This one’s tenure had almost been short-lived; in his very first victory he’d refused the crowd’s insistent iugula!, iugula!, iugula!

The editor had become furious, standing upon his seat to give his modest form more stature, he’d repeated the dreaded thumbs up! In all directions the crowd continued to respond. This one, billed as The Judean Terror, had just delivered what looked like the death blow! The stacked rings of the wooden scaffoldings—weaving and shaking with the surges of the tightly packed crowd—had oo’ed habet!, habet!, then shrieked with displeasure when they realized that he’d not jammed his trident into the neck of his fallen foe, but had merely pinned his right sword arm to the sand instead.

The man had stood, calmly gazing upon the waves of spectators groaning the stands this way, then that, the faces in the crowd one blur of blood-lusting froth, then had dropped to his knees and bowed his head. There he’d remained, awaiting the editor’s hand motioning his beheading by the stadium guards

But the editor had feared this one. Not only was his prowess almost supernatural but too many stories had accompanied him. And too much official attention had, having already run them out of Rome, unwelcomingly come their way again. So, at first, the editor hid in his box, trembling. Of course he did not wish to upset Atilius but he was all too aware of how the promotor’s greed often clouded his wisdom.

Then, as if the gods really existed, the crowd had settled into silence. The murmurs of missum, missum, had rippled here and there. Soon all were waving their hems of togas and cloaks in approval. At this call for mercy the editor jumped to his feet again and gave the thumb’s down signal to have the contest ended, both gladiators escorted back to their barracks.

Thus had this man become their leader. Though his face held the features of a Roman patrician he indeed was from Judea. He’d grown up with his brothers, family and friends as a Jew under Roman rule. Sometimes the centurians and other Roman soldiers could be cruel—treating the Jews as dogs, donkeys, beasts of burden. A childhood game they’d played with the fishermen’s nets had turned into more—together with tridents, an unusual form of self-defense.

When their mother Mary, in her sons’ view cursed with gleaming cheeks of beauty, had been insulted by a particularly savage centurian, they had hunted him down. As their forebearer, that sun of Judgement, Samson, had done in fire-branding the foxes, they’d awaited opportunity. Their nets and tridents were already making their presence felt among the occupying army; their soldier’s issue of shield and short sword proved no match for the swirling skills of distracting nets, the sharp swing of a blow to the helmet by the trident’s butt that would leave the transgressor’s head ringing for days.

That night, though, James, his brother, had gone too far. He’d pierced the cringing fool’s throat with his trident and left it as a warning.

The slain soldier’s commander was a shrewd military man. Bribery had gotten him the identity of the renegade Jews; he’d had them all rounded up and threatened with execution unless the one who’d done the deed was identified.

The man now known as The Judean Terror had stepped forward, said, “I am the one you seek.”

The commander had sentenced him ad gladium. He’d arrived in Rome, and the fat jolly man running the gladiator school had given him net and trident—as a suggested jest—and pitted him against one of Rome’s best.

Though later the ludi-master would claim that the sun had gotten in his man’s eyes (perhaps Rome’s gods wished to humble his prize gladiator a bit, as well, for his recent boastful behavior] those in the stands that day saw a man enchant another with jaguar-like stealth and suddenness, the swirls of the net hypnotic before his unseen swoop and capture of the feet, sudden tumble into the burning sand.

Rome’s fans had whooped with laughter, the Judean had stood upon his foe’s chest, awaiting his instructions. The fat jolly man had squealed in protest and managed to save his best. When the profitable sum was offered for the Judean he was only too glad to be rid of him…

Now The Judean Terror picked up each greave, fastened tight the criss-crosses of leather behind his calves and ankles. He hooked the leather-lined, broad strip of bronze around his corded-muscle mid-section. Massaging his torso with his fingers he breathed deeply, let his eyes soft gaze. Past the wooden ceiling—already acrid with dry rot. Past the guards at the square of light at the entrance to the arena…

One day soon—unknown to him, unknown to all—disaster would strike here. The slap-dashed together ampitheater—overfilled for the sake of profits by Atilius and his backers—would collapse one sultry dog day of summer and leave 50,000 bodies lying dead, gape-mouthed in astonishment.

The Terror, too, in the arena, would drop his shield and sword to the sand in amazement. The Senate in Rome would investigate, Atilius would be put into exile. This mysterious gladiator known as The Judean Terror would be sent back to Judea.

And though a patrician benefactor would purchase his wooden sword of freedom this man would never receive it; his skill had earned him too many enemies—as a final joke from Rome’s hidden quarters he’d be sent to Judea as a war-galley slave…

What happened next would only fuel the rumors, for some time to come, of the Terror indeed being blessed. A more straightforward explanation existed, however; the very network that had gotten him into this trouble would get him out. His mentor, a white-haired man from the Essene Therapeut colony in Alexandria known as Philo, would arrange a surprise freeing of him when the galley reached Judea. Not hard, as the guards, glad to be ashore again, were soused to the gills.

After some time in retreat at their desert hideout at Qumran, where the aches and wounds and memories of savage blows landed, the endless pulling of drum-cadenced oars, would all be washed away beneath the hidden spring’s waterworks cascading upon him, he would be safely able to reenter day-to-day Judean life.

And for a time the news of the ampitheater’s collapse—a fear that the Jew’s god had caused it—would keep the Roman jackels at bay. When mysterious mishaps would happen, he would be the first interrogated. Raising his palms to the centurians, he would tell them that he was a man of peace now, surely they’ve heard that he’d retired? Grunting, they’d insist that he help them—reminding him of the official favor he’d once received in Rome. He’d roll his eyes heavenward, sigh in his act of exasperation, and tell them that it must be my kid brother Philo. A description of Philo as a wild-eyed, dark-haired irrepressible youth would follow. Too, the Terror’s confession that he’d been unable to restrain him of late—that the kid had slipped somewhere into the desert, avoiding the man’s admonition to become (as himself) peaceful, a man of Heaven.

With all the sincerity he could muster he would assure the centurions that once he caught up with this renegade, why, for the safety of their tribe he’d indeed turn him over to their custody.

Eyes glinting at The Terror, mistrusting, but not really having anything to use against him, they would disperse to his goodbyes of friendship…

All this, and, sad to say, too much more, still awaited the Judean Terror as he readied himself for combat. They’d told him today he’d be atop a bridge, to be attacked from each end by threax. As he’d refused to fight his own school, barbarians—from lands where he’d not yet been heard about—had been imported.

Heavy footsteps came down the ramp towards him. “Now Jew!” the guard barked. “Remember, no net and trident until you knock each one off the bridge first with swordplay.”

He signaled his acknowledgement, reached down for his helmet. A fierce griffin rose in a crest from the bronze bowl, white feathers adorned each side—at the hinges for the cheek-guards, a primary target, yet, in his case, the feathers never touched. He put it on, swung down from the sides the cheek-guards, fastened the metal latch tightly. The soft gaze of his eyes vanished as they adjusted to the metal grates prisoning and protecting his eyeholes. With one long exhale his visage became as rock-solid as his muscled mid-section.

Vir fortis! He turned to acknowledge the salute of his school—each pounding right fist of combat to heart. One day one had ventured forth to ask the source of his mysterious strength, as his body, though supple, seemingly was no match for some of the hulks thrown at him. He’d pointed to Heaven, saying his God was a merciful one, that no matter what was taken from him or done to him, all that was ever asked of him was never to lose heart. Dignity, he’d explained, can never be taken from one, only surrendered. Die upright, he’d said, like a man.

He raised himself to full height, bowed his head in gratitude to his

comrades, turned and walked up the ramp, into the light…

The Bitter Gall of Heaven

THE BITTER GALL OF HEAVEN

—in homage to Homer’s Iliadⁱ

Vaulting towards Heaven, the Sun emerged from the deep, slow currents and still depths of Oceanus. In the cool of cypress trees, tented next to sleek black warships, oars at rest amidst the heating sand, lay—luxuriant with pillows—Achilleus and Briseis.

“You don’t look so fierce now,” she said, curling a finger in his chest hairs.

“Too hard to be so around one so charming as you,” he replied, easing his head deeper into the sweet valley of her breasts.

“Tell me what it’s like,” she said. “In battle. As women all we get to do is pray for our men. Even when alive you never talk about it.”

His eyes rolled up, amused yet dispassionate. “You wish to hear of the threshing-floor of battle? Men winnowed like wheat? The hooves of war-horses thrashing one and all, whitening with dust, like aged bones left in the whirling to Heaven’s firmament?” His face grew tender as he gazed into her widened eyes. “Not much to say.”

Chin dropping, she looked away and said, “You are indeed as arrogant as they say. When we were captured I feared the worst.” Her eyes misted, silken-lined, like the Doe-Eyes of Hera. “Our men are not like you. Simple and plain-speaking; most of the time good but sometimes coarsened, calloused, no matter how many oblations and cleansings. Your hands are strong but gentle. Alive with tenderness.” Her chin still dropped, cheeks weighted with tears, she added, “I suppose that makes me lucky…”

The canopy’s entrance stirred and in walked Patroclus. “Are you two planning to lay about all day?”

“What do you propose we do?” Achilleus eased hands behind his head. “You wish to help old Dog-Faced One? No thanks-to you or that cowardly idiot…Last night at council Diomed spoke truly; Agememnon is jinxed-whether by scheming Saturn or not. For some reason given Jove’s honour and aegis to rule us, but how bereft of valour…”

At those words Patroclus assumed a stoop, squinted his eyes and bobbed his neck.”H-H-How dare you!” he stammered in a high pitch of outrage, thrusting feet at half-angles outward in waddling walk.

“Ooo-oh!” Briseis jumped upright and clapped her hands, “Yes, Agememnon the Mum-mer!” Glee shone full in her eyes. “Do Nestor! Patroclus; or Odysseus!”

At her side Achilleus raised an eyebrow. “Friend I do indeed think she favors you better than me…”

“Now, now,” noble Patroclus gently chided, “Play you your lute, why even your savage heart is thus calmed…Yes, do your complaining with fanciful notes…”

On Achilleus the trace of a scowl broke the heightened smoothness of his cheeks, “No, I think not-though that pleasure be most pleasant and without conflict; I’ve no use today; as most hateful to me is the arrogance of Agememnon the two-faced-the grievance has soured me, too deeply.”

Though Patroclus knew how poorly their council had gone, he could tell that Achilleus had not told his dear Briseis… When he and Achilleus had captured her home city, the poor woman had been shrieking with madness upon the sight of her dead husband and three brothers returned to her; blood having barely dried upon the wounds, cooled forever now, faces fixed in the death mask of agony.

When she was brought to the presence of Achilleus and Patroclus, with fierce beauty she’d hurled insults at them, Yes, I know all about you, heartless Achaean, do you wish to slake your lust and kill me too?

Patroclus had watched as for the first time ever, he saw his good friend taken aback by a woman. It even seemed as if he were to cry-at least it looked as if his eyes had grown moist beneath the metalwork of his war helmet, which he removed and set aside. With both hands outstretched, he then reached down to the huddled Briseis, and, beckoning for her hands, helped her rise. I am most sorry, he murmered, I vow I will care for you now…Patroclus had then said, And I will be your brother…

Now as Achilleus rose from his bed and gazed down upon Briseis, Patroclus saw the same sorrow.
“Friend, please entertain our dear lady, I will be back,” Achilleus said. Bowing deeply, he backed through the curtained entrance and was gone…

Waves gently loamed upon the sands before him—the sounds as soothing as his mother’s voice.
“Oh Thetis,” he murmered, “What am I to do? How is it I am to have no wife? I swear Briseis is an honourable woman and she is my choice…”
A full moon hung in all soft glory off the horizon. Across the sea—all molten, deep midnight blue. The skiffs of waves spangled as if silver.
“To be first among the foremost—this matter have I always been taught…For what, mother? To die an early death for the sake of that skulking dogface who now steals my wife after having stolen my honor? He was to be only our principal chief, how is it none of the other Acheans can see the error of his ways? Why, Mother? Why has our Heavenly Father Zeus forsaken me so?…”
His voice faded to a whisper. Before him the slow roll of waves lulled him as low, steady thunder…
“Yes, I truly see your rides, kind mother,” spoke Achilleus, as he drifted off to sleep…

When the mighty chariot of Phoebus again pulled the sun’s constant globe all ablaze from the depths of Oceanus, Achilleus opened his eyes, brushed the sand from his face.. In front of him was a smoothly rounded, polished cedar chest.

He lifted the lid—stiff with finely-crafted hinges—and found inside, wrapped in silken cloth, a chalise of exquiste beauty. Silver embroidered with a ring of delicate leaves, the body inlaid with rubies…

Outside the tent now sounded footsteps through the sun-hardened earth. Standards announced Agememnon’s emissaries and waited, ill at ease, for response. “Yes, yes, come in,” said Achilleus, gesturing both with eyes and hands. “We’ve been expecting you.” Wary and tense, the king’s heralds advanced. “Orders from the king,” clipped one, “The oracle predicts victory from Zeus upon return of the daughter of Apollo’s priest and award of Briseis to our king.”

Hands neared swords as Achilleus widened eyes—flashing sparks of rage before softening like embers.
“Come, come,” he gestured, overly gracious, “Enjoy a good feast, good cohorts, before your dictum falls.”

Patroclus, made suddenly humble, laid cuts. Briseis, whom Achilleus had told, as best he could, upon his return that morning, emerged from the rear room of the tent in full fury. “Are you a coward?” she screamed at Achilleus. “Defend me if you are indeed a man!”
Achilleus averted her eyes, unable to speak. “Dear Sister,” Patroclus said, gently taking her arm, “He can do nothing right now, he is powerless to go against our war council. I told you, by all and utmost sacred vow, when he is able to secure your rescue and return he will…”
Made deeply uncomfortable, out of respect for their great warrior, the standards proffered excuse to decline the feast table. Achilleus shrugged, gestured for them to gather the chests of Briseis in the rear of the tent. When he walked to Briseis, palms outstretched, beseeching forgiveness, none was granted—she strode to the standards, departed, her head held tremoringly high, not looking back.

Void of utterance, the night sky—imperturbable Heaven-radiated stars…Not a breath of air…While a thousand watch-fires gleamed down upon the plain; gesturing men gathered round each, their war-horses, cleansed of the day’s hardened blood and mud, coats spangling anew, crunching oats and corn beside the darkly gleaming war chariots…
Inside the gently rustling canopy of his tent, Achilleus, his newly found chalice in hand, sat drinking the mead of Zeus…Sipping, careful not to unman himself…

They shall seek and they shall not find.

  1 Italicized phrases allusions to and quotations from Homer…

My Little Town

MY LITTLE TOWN

T hough some twenty-five years ago, the memories that I have of upstate New York still have such piercing intensity…

I began high school in 1968, the year of the student riots and strikes in Paris, France, yet, in my isolation, those events, and the rest of the super-mythical Sixties, were as if occurring in another universe. My hometown was a small, depressed rural town. Most of my classmates were the sons and daughters of hard-working, struggling-not-to-go-under, farming families. Many had been further reduced to “weekenders” with the Eisenhower-era “social engineering” arrival of an IBM “think tank.”; the Great Corporate Father had acquiesced to the wish to escape into some kind of pastoral fantasy of city folk like my foster-family. So not only had these new, mostly urban arrivals doubled the size of the town—greatly changing it’s cultural makeup—but too, many of the original population of a couple thousand had found work in the accompanying chipboard manufacturing plant.

The hubbub beginning of my tenth grade I decided— having shot up to 6’2”— that I was going to play basketball for our school team. I wheedled out of my folks a hoop and net from the mail-order catalog of Sears & Roebuck, my annual fall clothing lifeline as well, and, out of the various pieces of scrap lumber haven fallen about our once-functional farm, mounted the hoop on a backboard and raised it onto a wooden platform. In the middle of the hayfield that, after the summer cuttings by neighboring farmers, doubled as my archery range.

Given the fall chill the ball of course would not bounce. The act of shooting, too, was made difficult when the frosts caused moisture to glaze up the ball. My practice time was the steadily diminishing light remaining after my hour-plus ride home on the Football players “team bus”; after zig-zagging through the district’s dilapidated farms—most acrid with ammonia from chicken manure—our driver Mr. Whalen would hand crank the door open, bid me, the last one, a good night and head back to the bus garage…

When the oak’s brilliant red and gold plumage had faded into darkness for my ride home Basketball season had arrived. Our coach was the inimitable Mr. Murphy—not the drinking kind of Irish but an ex-Marine drill sergeant and here to tell you all about it.

Our first practice Mr. Murphy—failure to address him as Mister got you ten wind sprints right away—held a basketball in his hands and said, “Gentlemen, this is the ball. Take a good long look, as you men won’t be seeing another for two weeks.” No smile broke his face, no sardonic grin, just straightforward imparting of the news.

After all these years, I’m one of the few proud ones who was able to say, At least I didn’t phewck my guts…We did nothing but conditioning exercises for two-and-one-half hours, with pathetically short “wind breaks,” during which absolutely nothing but breathing hard and harsh was allowed, as the theory was that water would bloat us and make us sick.

Most of those trying out for the team dropped, as the locals had a habit of saying, like flies on manure. Primary culprit was the dreaded wind sprints, gentlemen!…toes touch the foul line, turn back to the baseline, toes touch the mid court line, turn back to the baseline, toes touch the over-and-back line, turn back to the baseline, toes touch the opposite foul line, turn back to the baseline, toes touch the three-feet line, turn back to the baseline, toes touch the far baseline, turn back and finish baseline…last one in the group runs with the next…

Or if you missed a line with your toes—or if Mr. Murphy thought you needed an attitude correction—you’re up again son…Now!

So engrained were the protocols of the drill routine into my consciousness that just three years later, when I tried out for the State University of New York at Buffalo team as a freshman (all teams together) I had a coach tell us, the first day, to run “the weave” and everybody but me, with practiced ease, lined up to run the drill…

I’d already felt a bit intimidated, as most of the kids were from New York City—a tight clique that already knew and had played against each; furthermore, my flat, neutral accent gave me away as a despised upstater (said like hinterlands).

As my turn among the 100 or so assembled approached, my brain went on standby; I asked, “Coach, how exactly do you want me to run?”

Immediate raucous laughter broke through the ranks.

Coach said, “The weave, son. You never did this drill in High School?”

“No sir,” I blurted. “Our coach was long on windsprints and conditioning.”

With a slightly incredulous look on his face, he then told me, “Pass, cut outside and around; receive inside, take a dribble, turn and hit the cutter, continue, and, if you’re in the position, take the lay-up. Got it?”

I said Yes and, managing to calm myself, ran the drill. Towards the end of the court I could see that I’d be doing the lay-up so I mentally readied for a show-off dunk (my growth had continued to 6’4”, 185 pounds with weight training).

Then, with a look in his eyes that I’ll never forget—an icy-blue spiraling of sorts—a beefy, crew-cut, football player deliberately stumbled into me with a forearm shiver. So, just as I’d begun focusing on my redeeming slam-dunk, I was instead knocked asprawl to the shiny wood…

I was used to this kind of hostility. My senior year in High School I’d gone from looking, in my yearbook picture, like the president of the Young Republican’s Club to having (perhaps) become the Fifth Beatle—stodgy, black-framed glasses replaced by cool new “wireframes,” my short “Princeton” haircut grown out as long wavy hair…Though white and straight, I was thus tagged in my rural area as Spearchucker ; when my “long-haired hip-pii freak” friends went to the few clubs playing “our music,” we were often in danger of being jumped by the greaser gangs—always nearby, mulling around the fast-food joints looking for some female hawg banging.

So, that tryout day, I picked myself up off the floor and stayed cool. Nobody said anything.

Upon arriving to the next day’s practice, my gut tightening, I checked the cut list. My name wasn’t there…

I threw myself into the workouts, recovering my poise, shining on defense when I picked clean a couple of the hotshots…At week’s end, the Coach and an assistant motioned me over after practice.

Where’d you go to High School, son? the Coach asked, telling me, too, that he’d never heard of a Coach that didn’t run the weave. I told him the school was tiny, “Class C,” but that we’d been a powerhouse in the State Sectionals. He chuckled and told me that I was the best natural defender he’d ever seen, and that’s something you just can’t teach, you either have it or you don’t…I was to report for special weight raining session to an assistant and start eating 10,000 calories a day, son…

Riding a bus, a big yellow “Blue Bird” school bus, on our way to Cincinnatus, a tiny little town the farthest distance from my little high school in our athletic conference, almost to Syracuse. Scrunched into the dark green seat, smelling of new car—bus #50, brand new, the biggest in our fleet, even equipped (the only one) with a cassette tape deck…My knees pebbling from the protuberated metal seat back directly before me as I awaited my music…(Mr. Whalen, our driver, had said he’d play the cassette I’d brought as soon as we got rolling; our new coach, Mr. Ryder, had said we could listen to music as long as we won…)

Then the plaintive flute and lamenting voices of “Simon and Garfunkel,”…I’d rather be a sparrow than a snail…Yes I would…. If I only could…I surely would…”

As I quietly sang along, lying low in the seat, a teammate popped his head over the seat in front of me. “Tom, you are singing. Is this the tape you said you were going to bring?” Joey, our good-natured off-guard, my best ally on the team.

“Yeah,” I said, made self-conscious. Joey and I usually played one-on-one to warm up before practice; he was the only teammate who’d still play me, as I always won and the others grumbled about my taking everything too seriously.

I mumbled something to him about the singing loosening me up for the game; his broad-faced easy grin only grew wider…

“La-dee-dah” crashed the sounds of the new song’s chorus, as the duo sang of a “boxer in the clearing all alone…la-dee-dah-da-dah-da-da-la-dee-da-da-dah…”

At the school we were to play awaited my old Boy Scout summer camp friend Jeff. For both of us, the month that we’d spend along the shores of Cayuga Lake as young boys was just the escape we needed. Both of our families qualified as what is now called “dysfunctional,” but in those days that wasn’t considered “the norm,” like now; most adults we encountered—never talking about one’s homefront difficulties—truly wished to see one succeed. Just as at my first winter campout, when, a mere lad of eleven, I went out with my patrol into a 13-degree-below-zero snowfall and returned after the weekend—guided by our kindly Scoutmaster Mr. Sibley in such manhood matters as building a pine branch lean-to—I’d gush Neat!

Camp was the same way—shale creek-beds, long ago cut by glaciers, to explore, the archery rang,. waterfront and sailboats. Thick green Army “surplus” tents, treated with moisture repellent that smelled strangely when warmed by the sun, that were erected on wooden platforms equipped with four metal-tubed bunks—the kind one always had to check to see if a prankster had set the ends hanging on platform edge for a bang of a surprise…All kinds of “merit badges” to earn that were actually a lot of fun…

I was one of the youngest in our state to earn the highest rank—“Eagle Scout.” I never missed a Monday night meeting; held in the basement of the large, made beautiful with stained glass windows, Presbyterian Church, it was where I attended Sunday School as well. We were in transition, from bubbling kids rushing to the nearby Italian Deli for Cream sodas and licorice to more measured young adults. “Community Service” was not only a required merit badge but too a quality now expected of us…

As such I became the “Flower Power” Patrol Leader for my local troop—despite the adult leaders’ trepidation at the choice of name—then the “Owl” Patrol Leader for the 13^th World Jamboree, an international gathering in Japan, where we camped for a month, at the base of Fujijama…

At our game, on the sidelines, pre-game, I managed to talk a bit with Jeff. We mostly joked about how we almost became the first Boy Scouts “86’ed” from a World Jamboree—you see, we were both 16 and already tall, so one night we scaled the Tokyo Olympic compound’s fence—after tossing over bags with out “civilian gear”—and went exploring in the night districts; the few places we tried had no difficulty with serving us beer and soon we were wandering miles away from our compound…Some fascinated locals—down one of those very clean residential streets—ventured “Hello” to us, and, trading bits and pieces of language back and forth, we managed to talk well into the morning…Our new hosts even called a cab for us and pre-paid the driver—with a wagging admonition to him not to cheat us…

Upon our return, however, not more than fifty feet after rescaling the fence, two security guards nailed us. Our absence had been noticed during bed-checks, we were hauled off to a high-level interrogation…

Courtside, that night in Cinncinatus, the memory—as well as the flush of glee at how neither of us “cracked” in our separate interrogations—brought such laughter that each of our Coaches frowned our way, each motioning for us to rejoin the team warm-ups…

During the game I exploded into action. By halftime I had 18 points, most of our production and pretty good given the slow pace of our games—patterned offense, deliberate play.

In the locker room our Coach was upset—despite our double-digit lead—and was holding forth like a country preacher “You all think you’ve got this game won; well I’ve got news for you: only one man is playing with intensity and carrying the load for the rest of you and that’s Tom.”

His words surprised me as much as they did Joey, sitting next to me on the uncomfortably narrow wooden benches. I was known as the team rebel and shunned for my aloofness…

In fact later that season I would quit the team, allegedly over my refusal to cut my hair—in those days we had to wear suits and ties as well to away games—but in reality over what I felt was shabby treatment for the team’s best producer. My specialty was those all important “boards” or “rebounds” of missed shots; when we were allowed to open things up, my snagging and whipping out the outlet pass often meant an easy bucket on the other end…

Something that I could not help but notice lacking when I watched—from the stands, as a spectator—our team lose in the state sectionals to a team we’d beaten when I was still playing earlier in the season. Enraged, our Coach punched Joey in the locker room after the loss—yelling at him, “I don’t want to see you ever hanging out with that traitor out there again!”

And what I did not know at that time were two developments of major import. Just up the road from where we were playing was Syracuse University—with a new Head coach, Jim Boeheim, who’d been hired from a junior college close to my little town. The other matter was that my real parents—a matter unknown to me then—were sitting in the stands, right next to Coach-to-be Boeheim…

That night, all that mattered to me—what I remember still—is that sheer immediacy that just seems to go on and on… Just like the when I ran those most-difficult-to-master 120-yard High Hurdles for Varsity Track season. That following spring, after a half-dozen races in which I’d lost concentration and broken stride, I finally ran a perfect race. We were at our arch-rival Spencer Van-Etten, and, before my race, were behind. My three strides over the ten yards between hurdles had never before found such degree and order as I glided over each black-and-white striped barrier; I was bereft of time, space, distance—even sound. My time, 15.6 seconds, was a school record—still not beaten—though some grumbled that it was “Wind-aided’ and therefore didn’t count.

The first of many times since I’ve found some kind of grace, that state of just being. On the court, not only becoming beyond an opponent’s anticipation but too alive with this panoramic awareness expanding and sharpening details with astoundingly subtle clarity. No end, no beginning…

Every once in a while some guttural roar from the crowd or screech of sneakers

making a sudden halt. Other than those interruptions, one long smooth flow. Hands

arched around the ball with fingertips as points of light guiding the shot…all net…

T hose hoop drills that our Coach had us do, over and over again in practice, came to life that night. One in particular—where you had to drive to the hoop, from one sideline first, then the other, and, at about eight feet from the hoop, take off, twist to the right around one stationary teammate, then twist to the left around the other positioned teammate…finishing with a full extension of the ball hand to gently make the hoop…

Driving through the lane that game, threading the defenders, seemed effortless. As a big man I was not expected to shoot the ball—especially in our patterned offense, where the other low post man and myself would cut to the high post/ shooting guard area on either side only for the sake of making a pass to the cutter down the middle. But the other team had started out collapsing and leaving me open, so I’d taken the shot, as we’d been instructed, to draw out the defenders and free the lane. When they came out on me I spontaneously went into the drive…That sudden half-step quicker, no matter who defended…

So at half-time that night I’d been very surprised not to be criticized by Coach Ryder. He had a habit of calling “time-out” during our games for the express purpose of hitting a numbskull over the head with a clipboard for being a hot dog. Joey was his favorite target—the clipboard often breaking, causing him to reach for a courtside stack of reserves he always brought.

When we took the court again, after our warm-up shots, I readied myself to win the jump ball tap. I never lost, our Assistant Coach had taught me to start really low in a cat’s crouch before springing, then reaching to flick the ball at the last moment to one of my guards I’d sense behind me.

The crowd booed me as I entered the tap circle. I was used to this treatment, as well; for holding a rival star to just two buckets the whole game an opposing coach, quoted in our local paper, termed me, The Animal.

On offense I was confronted with a “box-and-one.” One defender was assigned to me, man-to-man, wherever I went, while the rest played a rectangular zone. I was playing “team ball,” making my passes in our set plays disguised and crisp…

Yet, at one point, my teammates not hitting, our point guard dribbled down towards the baseline corner where I was posted for the play we were supposed to run, and swung a half-pivot for screening my defender, tossed me the ball and implored me to shoot!…One of my only two buckets that half.

Years later now, I still have such perfect memory of that moment…You see, I never even got to meet Coach Boeheim—let alone my real parents—the matter tossed away by my foster father, a mean drunk who muttered to Boeheim something about the kid’s not worth your effort and forbade him from contacting me—the “rules” in those days followed very strictly…The old man had tried the same stunt with my Varsity Track coach in High School. My track Coach, a devout Catholic who believed heavily in the concept that not living up to your potential was a sin against God, had shown up at his place of work, and—not intimidated by all the suits and ties in the old man’s engineering department—had picked him up and put him against the wall, saying, Your kid’s got God-given talent and he’s going out for my team, understand?

These matters all gone in the swirl of memory…would have’s and could have’s and should have’s all signifying nothing now…

I still play hoop, even at age 43. My right leg aches a bit from the compression plate I still have from a career-ending accident my college freshman summer.

I was riding a motorcycle from my one job as a lifeguard to swing-shift at the IBM circuit-board manufacturing factory—nice humid, late summer richness of a day—when a woman in an old station wagon broadsided me, dead in her sights, at a crossing in a county road…

Back at Buffalo that fall, hobbled still by crutches, my College hoop Coach went ballistic when he saw me: What in the world were you doing on a motorcycle?

Getting a good run in these days is often difficult. The younger crowd all style themselves after the pro thug ball game—trash-talking, trying to intimidate. Though few have the talent, let alone rep with those necessary referees, to get away with it. Most wonder What are you doing on the court?, especially given how I’ve regrown my hair long, into a yogin’s ponytail.

As one ages, you learn to make up for the decrease in your kinesthetic output with an increase in court sense. Though I don’t have the time or inclination to explain the matter, I could tell the youngsta’s how I’ve beaten such pro players as Michael Cooper—who played with “Los Angeles Lakers.” When we played he’d just finished at the University of New Mexico at Albuquerque. My college sweetheart and I were visiting her sister. While they caught up on old times, I’d wandered off looking for a game. Finding the University’s big athletic fieldhouse, I’d walked onto the game court and called Winners. The first looks of disbelief were dispelled when but then my three beat Cooper and his teammates, first game. Second game, him yelling at his teammates not to fuck up, they won. Rubber match, game point, I faked a drive down the lane—with which I’d been scoring, then drove left and faded away, just out of reach of Cooper’s attempted block, a fifteen footer. All net.

In the silence he’d angrily said to me, You ain’t from around here, are you, Well this is my court, so don’t dome back…

Too, I’ve bested players from the local team “Golden State Warriors” in pick-up games—some on the very same court on which we play, right next to the new “Haas Pavilion” built for our Cal team. I miss the old “Harmon Gym,” though. For a period of about ten years you could not get a better game anywhere in the Bay Area. Despite the court time being limited to lunch hour on Monday, Wednesday and Friday (sometimes an extra hour) everybody who was anybody would show. The picking of teams was so competitive that often somebody would call Winners and, instead of picking up an asking newcomer, would wait and snag ringers off the losing team on court. Thus, the joke became—when three or four players mulling around had all the next games locked up—So where’s your team, coming in on the bus from Sacramento or something?

Games were fought hard—usually the first one lasting a half-hour or more—and any “calls” hotly disputed. One time a guy, nicknamed “Crazy Dave,” who could leap for days but had absolutely no touch on his shot, walked off the court in rage after having his version challenged. After stopping at his ‘Stang illegally parked outside to pick up his “45,” he walked nonchalantly back onto the floor, right up to the guy who’d made the call on him, and put the piece upside his head, asking, Who right now?

The very surprised guy—a Cal student—blurting and raising his hands with the others in unison, You the man, Dave, you the man…

So, like everybody who’s ever played the game, I suppose instead of playing I could tell ya all about it. (Crazy Dave met his demise by the same ploy in a playground argument a few years later, by the way). Instead, I just try and get a good run in—making sure that I get the ball at the point guard position, the source of most difficulties in casual games, and demonstrate How to pass the ball. Especially in to the big man, a trick of disguise requiring dexterity and quickness; for some reason, most guards in pick-up games assume the big man is “slow” or something and telegraph the pass inside with such woeful obviousness that “my grandmother could steal it,” as the court banter goes. And, as even the supertanker pro centers like to show—especially during the All-Star games, there’s a point guard inside every big man just waiting for the chance to play…

Of course, when I return to working the paint, the big man’s turf, I still never get the ball…

But no one can take away or screw up that feeling, standing on the foul line, all alone, just like on the court that day in my High School game…My buddy Joey on one side, the point guard Bobby on the other…Two great teammates (Bob’s the High School Principal now) the likes of whom, like those days, I’ll never see again…

A couple of bounces of the ball…Shake out the looseness in the feet, set them shoulder width for stability, then, just like our Assistant Coach Hinell used to say—you gotta make yourself tough, give yourself a rock-solid foundation. Gathering the ball at your solar plexus, where your breath is centered, make your shot all one motion, ball leaving your hands and arcing from the graceful wrist snap—perfectly into the hoop, a sound never forgotten,

swish…

1

Against a Falling Fabric

AGAINST A FALLING FABRIC

(Shakespeare, Coriolanus)¹

Even the doe nuzzling the old Chinese man—seated upon a rock in the tree-lined shelter of a cool glade—was no consolation to him.

“Ah, I am just an old man now,” he sighed, the muscles in his broad chest shaking with grief. “Nobody pays me any mind any more.”

Several squirrels who’d scampered in from the forest shook tails like plumes, then, with soft, almondine eyes, resumed watching him. The monkeys who’d swung down from the branches regarded him too—tipping heads first one way, then the other, holding feet in hands and gently rocking. The doe went back to grazing.

The chin of his big bald head nodded inwards as the large luminous eyes that used to sparkle with mirth when he was teaching softly teared.

He’d taken to coming here for respite when he could no longer handle the camp of monks and nuns. Though his eyesight was failing (his hearing, too, getting even worse) he knew that his distracted inability to pay attention to his pupils—or even the mundane matters of seeing that the supplies were properly gathered, the meals cooked—lay elsewhere. He was troubled that he just did not know why.

Perhaps he no longer knew what to do…

He remembered how at one time he would lecture to 1,000 people on Vulture Peak, with people traveling from far provinces just to hear him discourse on the Dharma. How in the world had things become so different?

In front of him one of the monkeys stood, did a backflip, then reseated himself to the chattering approval of the others. Usually these tricks made his eyes grow wide with wonder, his belly shake with amusement. But not today. Another tear slowly ran down his cheek.

For too long now he’d found that no matter which way he led the camp they could find no monasteries remaining.

Perhaps, he thought, that when Emperor Wu’s troops had arrived at their own monastery he should have done things differently. Yet he could not believe his ears when the captain had confronted him—as he was the senior teacher—and demanded that, according to new proclamation, they renounce Buddhism as a foreign superstition and convert the monastery to a center for studies of native Confucianism. He’d been sewing a rip in one of his robes, and, not wishing to be distracted, had simply nodded his head No.

The troops had brandished swords and lances and prodded everyone out of the buildings and courtyard. Then they had gathered all the religious statues, thangka paintings and other sacred objects forming the shrine’s alter and, denouncing it all as demonic idolatry, smashed everything into a pile of rubble.

As all watched in astonishment, next the buildings were torched. Flames leaping high behind them the troops then left—coarse laughter resounding among the horses’ hoof beats…

Since that time—six years that have seemed like an eternity—they trekked to Lung Hsing Monastery, then K’ai Yuan and a dozen others outlying their region. At each one, rubble. His scouts would return—eager with news of one in an area not yet plagued by the mad Emperor and his cadres of Confucian court scribes—and each time, with high spirits, they’d set out as if seeking the promised land of Heaven.

Yet too many times now they’d crest a hill and discover, in the distance, columns of billowing black smoke. As if the troops had awaited their arrival before destroying. Still more crying refuges with tales of fresh destruction.

They had even had to take on groups of nuns—wandering in utter bewilderment. The older ones wide-eyed with fear, unable to speak of the savagings the younger ones had had to endure as each was bounced roughly along from one soldier to another.

Of course he knew that monks and nuns in the same camp would not be a wise idea, thinking now of new difficulties, but what choice had he had?

In the branches above him birds chirruped, startling him. The squirrels and monkeys before him still sat regarding him.

“So, you are my pupils now. Hmmn, yes, I see,” he chuckled.

His thoughts returned to the source of their plague—Langdharma the heretic! The heretic’s brother, who’d administered the province before him, had been most favorably disposed towards Buddhism.

He himself had been invited to the capital to discourse the Dharma and had delivered what he.d thought had been a not bad sermon. He’d told the tale of mountains and rivers: at first in practice, mountains are mountains and rivers are rivers. Then one begins to notice mountains in everything. Rivers in everything. If one looks, for example, at a peak when the sun is just right, it glimmers like a river. When one gazes into a stream, seeing the cool deep rock bed beneath the spangling surface, then relaxing the eyes with mushin, no gaze, no concepts, no form, no emptiness, one sees the surface of the water as being as solid and of great form as a mountain. Then mountains become rivers and rivers become mountains…

The governor had then asked, But then what happens?

He’d flashed his famous inscrutable smile and said, The ox returns home of itself…

Out of jealousy, a desire for greater power, Langdharma had then murdered his brother—claiming in secret it was necessary because as governor he’d gotten out of control, had become seduced by the foreign devils. Shrewdly, to ensure protection, he’d then sent a scholar, Han Tse, to the Emperor Wu with this nonsense of return to native Confucianism, expel these foreign devils.

The propaganda was quite elaborate: the Chinese in their innate wisdom should have known better when this tall, gaunt figure Bodhidharma, the First Patriarch of Buddhism in China, had appeared from India several generations ago. Wrong body style for the more corpulent and sensual Chinese. One too aggressive as well—this light-skinned devil Bodhidharma was possessed of unnatural abilities and unnatural quickness and strength and had taught his demonic martial arts to so many since that the very security of the nation-state was threatened!

Too, this devil’s gaze—piercing with intensity—would enter the softly focused, unsuspecting eyes of the Chinese and subtly brainwash them with sorcery! Before one knew it, one would wind up in Hell, with one of the Confucian Mandate from Heaven scribes holding a long list of sins committed (albeit unconsciously), the scribe’s face sad in recounting, as help would not be available now…

Never had he heard such claptrap! Such perversion of the Dharma! Why, the monkeys when they chattered made more sense! Cannily the right idea had been stolen from holy writ and dissembled as the false piety of another!

Still that part had not been the worst. Cloaked words can always be brought to the light of Truth by the subtle use of dialectics in debate. No, this Langdharma had become the very embodiment of depravity. Palace orgies went on for days—and he was especially fond of despoiling young Buddhist women. Mad Emperor Wu did not seem to care—if he even noticed at all, it was said that when messengers from the Court visited Langdharma he was the very model of piety…

The squirrels and monkeys were chattering in alarm now. He was sobbing mightily. Ah, it was all so intolerable. And he could do nothing to stop it. Langdharma would send spies, posing as refugees, into his camp, and like a subtle poison, they’d be too difficult to detect until the damage was done. Stooped with humility around him or the senior monks and nuns, these spies would then turn licentious in private, seducing the unsuspecting with tales of how much better life was at a place nearby—of which he, whom they called the Old Fool, was oblivious.

According to this script the minions dutifully deployed, he, the Old Fool, was being punished by Heaven for his youthful arrogance and other such alleged shortcomings—each newly minted disaster cleverly incoporated. Tales of Heavenly Consorting that brought instant enlightenment were snake-tongued into the ears of the young females—who would disappear with the spies to face virtual sexual slavery with Langdharma.

At least that was what his scouts loyal still reported. This dog fattens itself by feeding on our human flesh! But perhaps not. Perhaps he indeed existed in complete delusion, his dislike of Langdharma misfounded. Perhaps he had indeed failed his people. It would be better if the dog simply killed him off instead of allowing him to wander in abject misery as an object lesson to all…

A branch overladen with monkeys crashed suddenly to the ground—sending them leaping and howling into space, scampering away upon landing.

Yes, he thought, Manjushri stood before Gautama with a drawn sword!

He closed his eyes and the whole plan became clear. In the nearby village a farmer sympathetic to them had a sturdy white mare. He would put Young Grasshopper in charge of the camp—telling him to move only if necessary—and go to this farmer and borrow his pony. He would gather some garments to disguise himself as a beggar and outfit a bag with fresh clothes and some black dye. His folding bow and an arrow, too. Then he would ride like the wind to Langdharma’s capital; reportedly the little fool’s arrogance had reached such heights that he strolled about without a care, as his subjects were either obsequiously flattering to him or hid in stark terror from him.

When he crossed the last river before the capital, he would dye the mare black—upon his return the river crossing would wash her white again.

Then, with the bow and arrow in the folds of his robe, he would reach the capital, tether the mare and sit and beg alms. It would be just a matter of time before the opportunity presented itself.

Deep, deep within his mind’s eye he saw himself stealthily click the bow into place, rise to his full height and with the strength with which he once, as a young man vajra proud with the dharma, practiced hitting the target, he would draw his great bow until the string was taut against his straining chest and stilled chin…

When he released the bowstring he could not tell if it was the arrow or him speeding to its destiny with such strength. No matter. When it hit the heart of the heretic the grief in his own heart burst. Void and emptiness…

Leaves gently rustled as a cool breeze stirred, brushing his cheeks, bringing him back into awareness. Standing, he opened his eyes, turned and set about.

Mountains would again be mountains…

1 Some italicized phrases allusive to or quotations from Shakespeare or Zen Masters past…

Happenstance

HAPPENSTANCE

“Truth and understanding are not such wares as to be monopolized and traded in by tickets and statutes and standards.”

—Milton

One cold clear night, I was sitting in a large open window of a high-rise dormitory, listening to the crystalline stillness, outside, of winter in suburbia. Nothing but the sound of distant streetlights crackling through the chill…And the realization, as Rilke once said, that You must change your life…

I’d been reading Marx and Hegel, about the misappropriation of one’s labor, how the hard-won victories wrested from Hera’s earth are inevitably taken from one, palmed off by another, and then “compensated” by some pittance…How the senses of touch, taste, smell, sight, sound—all once divine, pure, ringing and clear, shimmering like some eternal prodigy ,you and your labors, one and the same, slipped away…Adam Smith’s “invisible hand” turned some thief in the night…

Looking over the sterile bedroom community I’d once envisioned myself a part of—as a lawyer with the two-and-a-half children, some Golden Retriever dog abounding and the requisite wife-chattel awaiting with dinner— some deep unspoken sadness befell…words from my state-of-the-art stereo loudspeakers drifted…Nights in white satin, never reaching the end…Beauty I’ve always missed, with these eyes before, just what the Truth is, I can’t say anymore…

The song from the “Moody Blues” stirred unsettled feelings: in my heart the stormy romances with stubborn women mirroring my soul, loosing the moors of male-female, yin-yang; despite my solitary pursuit of that All Important Grade Point Average. Lonely nights of study having driven away those most important—usually standing right before me—in favor of those ephemeral goals of some scholarly professor’s alleged Understanding…

Love had come and gone…traces still wet upon my lips…I’d found and lost Beauty…Now I knew I must leave, set out for the Coast, for that long arduous search for Truth…

Written in 1980, Ithaca, New York about freshman year at SUNY, Buffalo;

Revised 1990-98, Thomas Francis Noonan