Valley of the gers.
Valley of the gers.

Traveling down blistered asphalt

Ripped asunder by all manner of

Natural agitation and man-made

Stressors walks on such irritant

In his dusty ankle boots and

Khaki pants with the crease

Slightly faded.

Into the building he walks to grab

One or two things that will

Be needed to prepare the evening

Meal that he always takes alone

Not because he wants to but

Because he has yet to meet

Anyone he could possibly bring

Himself to speak to about such

Warming thoughts.

Alone he sleeps under the thin

Guise of platonic courtships

In library aisles choked on the

Smell of aging books and

Dying ink yearning to be absorbed,

But no one ever peels the cover

That is cracked and faded yet

Beautiful in its decay.

The next morning he awakes and

The roads are under construction,

Not yet made like they were only

Hours before he died for a time,

The store only has packets of

Salt and a few stale packages

Of bread left from before

Our brothers abandoned us after

A change of heart.

Perplexing streams of incorporeal

Rhythms and vexing beats

Flow as empty streets breathe

Heavy sighs as setting sun bids

Farewell to prosperity up north,

Calamity down south, but the man

Returns to his abode to spend yet

Another night wrapped in his mind,

Present fleeting.

The next morning he awakes not

Where he is used to awaking but

In a different home with no corners

And sun piping in through the roof,

Intricate patterns of vivid colors hang

Around his gaze, not fixed and jolting

Across wooden planks and rusty stove,

Putting on pointed boots and simple robes

Outside he ventures.

There are strange men in strange clothes

That at one time appeared normal

Scattered about like ankle bones and

Playing cards, shuffling about, prodding

Golden-clad figures and their

Maroon flock to a discreet field where

Lambs and goats bleat echoing prayers

Escaping to heaven.

Everything changed and everything will

Grow from smoking ash of the factory belt

Where the man once had his three squares

And fashionable clothes, for the time,

But nothing changed, despite the

Superficial camouflage of the home

And the people he surrounded himself

With, the harrowing truth swooped upon

Him like a western hunting eagle:

The was no escape.

He slept again, and had no dreams, for

When he woke in his circle house and

Stepped across the threshold there was

Not a single thing to be seen, only the

Vast nothingness of grass and rocks,

No rivers or mountains or

Mineral thieves and braying devils

With horns discarded casually in

Gutters and fields alike for bow makers

To fetch and twine.

Down he bowed on one knee and

Surveyed the wreckage that he had

Wrought upon this land that had no

Owner to demand tribute or fealty,

Alone he kneeled for the first time

In his short life recognizing that all

That surrounded him at this very moment

Reminded him to gaze upon his wrist

And decide in his hardened mind that

His watch was broken.

Composed 09/03/2012

Author’s Note: This one ended up a bit disjointed, as I was a bit vexed upon its composition. Just contemplating the mysteries of the advancement of the Mongolian people, I suppose.

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