I. Question Marks

Green ink, real coffee, and handsome scarves, these are the options of the deviceless. It's most apparent in the mornings, when soft bodies grope and peer in the dark, prying the deepest cracks and hunting for color. There is a pall over all living things--wives and children, the elderly and the eldest, and strong and weak men alike--and it does not pass. And every night, humanity yawns as it turns over, wondering why. The flat and sapless bend the low places and touch the high reaches, but sweep away nothing but dust. Restless we are, and ever weary from surveying the stars. You can sleep for years in this bed and not get a single night of respite.

The body politic stews in the corruption of regicide, and vagabond prodigal children stalk the night upon what was never home in the first place. Bare and bitter houses line the hilltops standing against the dark sky, and we go from one to the next in aimless misdirection. We wander our midnight haunts, we ponder our empty jaunts, and hurtle through the twilight without knowing that some fluttering kiss is waiting to land itself upon our cheeks, welcoming and leading us back in. There is a heavy robe out there ready to throw itself upon the unexpecting; a great ring and sandals for your unshod feet. But on this side of the veil, they oft appear as a ghostly mob, unwelcome and fearsome.

Something is missing from your life and mine, brother, like why the birds sing and why do bubbles go up? Deep puddles and monochrome borders and shading--you and I could both do without these, we really could. Somewhere our fathers threw the dice and they fell wrong. And now we pay usury from the depths of our souls. With every shuddering reach and every pull of the drawstrings, we draw up less and less, scraping at the bottom. We race, not dwell, and begin until we end.

Things are cheap, one-time use. Man, if I clasped hands with you and, still enjoined, threw you away, what would you say? So, brother, if you look in upon me on a winter day, I'll look back, but don't expect me to see you. Heartless handshakes and best friends forever last but for a little while. We cling fast to one another, because we feel for something real. As for the little things we do, like warm our hands with our breath, or stoop for a hint of color or tell-tale speck of reasoned hope--how do we even begin fighting to live when Solomon found no life smoldering under the sun?

Pause and listen. Love will find its way into the lexicon, earning a flaming chapter in the night. And that chapter will not end, for it will burn a bright trail across the paper and leap off the pages into life: an unstoppable answer that was, is, and always will be for a generation of tattered poor who beg and beg for the truth.