Home Blown

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Religion and Spirituality  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: November 05, 2016

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Submitted: November 05, 2016

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Home Blown

Past the last war,
done is the deed.

Desolation is the rule.

My city.
My city,
crumbled into heaps
like a rocky desert.
Bad lands.
A haphazard cemetery.
The beauty of architecture and garden and park
and life,
reduced to rubble
and death.

Past the last war,
just one month ago,
Mary and me,
together.
Together still.
We are home;
anywhere we sit is home.
Naked, us two together,
is our home.

The surface of the earth
is a mess;
megatons of justified paranoia
went off.

The first bomb,
the whole world heard the news.
That fire was out of the box again.
And then another one;
same country,
different city.
Sounded kind of familiar.

Well--
then a bunch of bombs went off.

With the first one,
split second decisions
all over the place.
But with the second,
Launch! Fire!

Terrorism.
Those who pulled the first two triggers,
hidden in the world,
total surprise,
won.

All the sneaky intelligence
didn't see it coming.
But all the sneaky intelligence did
come up with the first retaliation target,
and then all the others.

The man slammed his hand
on the button.

The devil must be dancing with glee.

Mary and me,
and the others of us,
a community in the rocks
that once stacked up to the skies,
once filled with commerce,
that machine.
Our method to get the food.
A pile of rocks.



So we eat what God provides.
And I don’t think he
meant this moment to be easy.
So he provides
scant little.

Comfort is out of the question.
Bed is dead.
Electricity’s off.
The roof is gone.

Water’s dangerous.

We live
by God’s grace,
with the others of us,
in the rubble of rocks
that was our city,
which fell down upon our loving lives.
Our now tattered lives.
The city which died.

Mary and me.
In our packs,
one perfect tea cup,
an old one,
for Mary.
And one .45 auto for me.
Also old.
My granddad’s military pistol.
The teacup belonged to his wife;
we all called her Granny.
We called him Grampy.
They both died
thinking America
was well with the world.

Pristine tea cup, the china.
Precision machine, the .45.
We resist allowing these items
to be included in our home
since they are separate
from our naked selves together.
But let’s face it,
she cherishes her cup;
and I pack my pistol.

There are various pockets
of the residue of human corruption
lying about.

My community,
here in the rubble rocks,
Mary and me
and the others of us,
we call ourselves Israel
because we have the faith.
And having the faith is the number one rule
of the One God who’s playing out his story.

Other communities across this great land,
less holy ones,
remnants of mankind,
are steeped in animalistic sin.
Beastly sin.


Mary and me,
and the others of us,
hand in hand we sit and pray.

And we say,
Father,
the Psalms.
King David had his life
so we would know this now.
Like he said in some,
Oh God,
this is how bad it is.
But I will yet turn to you.
That’s the pattern to our prayers.

Mary and me.
She’s burned on her front side.
Of burns, I’m free;
except these developing burns
strangely coming on
weeks after the fire
of a nuclear air burst.
Had to have been a missile,
or a Cessna nuke.
Who knows?

You see,
I was hiding in the closet.
I was naked,
yes,
in anticipation of our little love games.
And so saved from the burns of the flash
that was out the window
and quite a distance away.

But then that was quite a bomb.

Oh, Mary,
it burnt your belly and your bosom
as you,
naked, too,
playfully searched for me.
Looking out the window
just as the bomb went off
your face was saved by your peak a boo game.
Hiding your face
with your hands,
which were burnt instead,
it would have been your face.
My nakedness would have fried, too,
if I wasn’t in the closet.
Mary and me.
The day before that was the last good day of our lives.

Days of strife since
honed our blade
until our home
is our naked selves together.

We've dressed ourselves
from everyone's wardrobe
strewn all about;
but under the clothes
our selves are stripped naked.
The pool of our desires
drained empty.
Life as we knew it,
gone for good.
Our naked selves together.
Two as one.
We stand, as a home.
In this.

Our side of the city is pushed west.
I hear the other side
leans east;
and there’s a huge hole
right downtown.

The rocks are full of radiation.

The glass is like
growths of bladed crystal.
Ex-windows is a place one learns not to go
unless one is shopping for a knife
to cut some crusty green loaf of bread,
or to shred some dirty meat
to assure every molecule gets cooked.

The metals of buildings;
their jagged blades tear the skin
like a grinder.

Metal shreds the skin;
whereas glass cuts clean.
I’ve known both cuts
in these last four weeks.
Regardless of type,
the cuts fester.

Cars,
tipped every which way,
are canopied sleep holes
for the nomads.
Havens from stinking rain;
from irradiated rain;
from post bomb rain.
Poisonous water.
God’s free gift from the sky
polluted in the worst way.
We’ll just name that Wormwood.

When you see the
abomination that causes desolation….
That’s what the book says.
Well, I guess this is just that.
I see it, God.
I see it.

That was one honey of an abomination;
And the desolation?
Well,
well put.

So, Mary and me is a home
standing naked together.
Since home became all the stuff
and the location we kept it;
that’s why God whacked us.
And he knew he would;
he said so.
Way back then.

Yes, I’m stripped;
and so is Mary.
We only claim to own
our own dear selves.
What we do carry,
we refuse to hold.

OK.
She loves her teacup,
and I pack my pistol;
our one each little connection
to civilization.

Away, one day,
from the others of us,
and sitting on the rocks,
I stand.
And so does Mary
as a stranger approaches.

Whasup,
says the wired
all fired up man.

Nutin sup,
my reply, touching disdain.
Mary holds my arm with both her hands
and leans into me;
because this man
freaks us.
This man;
impending storm.

He’s why I need the .45.

He allowed one initial instant
of supposed friendliness,
and the next instant
a pistol in his hand
points at Mary and Me.

So.
What do you have?

Not much.
Our lives.

Yeah,
said bad boy with a pistol,
grinning wicked.

Then, the grin
turned to Mary;
evil eyeing the fact,
she’s a woman.

I pull,
so slowly,
the .45 from my belt;
behind me.
It hangs in my hand,
the steel of it hidden.
Trigger well fingered.

Madman’s demise;
my call.
He’ll have Mary
only because I’m dead.

Thou shalt not kill.

Yeah, I know.
In all my life, I haven’t yet.
But here’s this little fool;
utter, total threat.

Love your enemies.

I’ve never had an enemy.

But this guy is.
He’s an enemy.
Shall I love him?

Yes.

I love him;
but it’s pity.

In all my life
I haven’t killed yet.

Shall I go down with the score
of one kill;
or shall I die with none.

I raise my pistol up.
The dark hole points at him
like a cannon.
I have his attention;
but he leans his pistol
towards Mary.

Good move.

Now with my piece of lead
pointing at his head,
and his lead
at my dear Mary,
all the mysteries of existence
come right down to this;
this moment,
this madness.

Mary grins knowingly;
at me.
She lifts up her hands
and slowly reaches over her back
into her pack;
right there on top.
The madman’s dark hole remains fixed on her
as she pulls out the teacup
that she’s trusted,
that she’s cherished.
A materialism
in her hand.
She holds it out
and it swings on one finger.
And she grins at me.

An idol.
One last idol;
not quite naked.

Staring into my eyes
she lets it slide off her finger,
and it seems to linger in its drop;
but suddenly splinters forever on the pavement
hastening its evolution into dust.

A weapon.
One last weapon;
not quite naked.

Face to face,
each with a gun,
the violence slut and I.

I point the .45 away
and release the grip.
Gravity swings it down,
pivoting on my finger.
The other guy goes slack jawed,
staring dumbly
at Mary and me.

Whata ya doing?

I’m giving up the gun.

Mary and me turn from that deadly hole
pointing at us;
with me in surrender,
with Mary my love.

Can’t do that.
This is a showdown.

Showdown to what?
I stare his way;
what’s your beef?

I’m just looking for today's killing;
just looking for today's fun.

A moment passed right there.
It stretched.
The whole scene laid before me;
there,
happening.
An instant to ponder
and see the elements of the landscape;
broken city pieces.
The normal everyday planes
all askew.
Dirty faces
and the players;
Mary and me,
and this skuzzy thug in front of us,
with his stink,
with his hatred,
with his almighty gun.
Must be a .357,
a no doubt about it pistol.
And his stink, days of dirt,
and days of horror,
and days of the bliss of letting the animal out.

To kill,
what a sweat producer.
What a madness producer.

And his hatred;
who knows?
How did his life lead to this?
How did mine?
How did Mary’s?

There stood Mary at my side;
alive.
Her face,
saved by playing peak a boo,
gave me a glance.
And her eyes;
I love you.
At the end of that instant.

My finger relaxes.
My pistol falls.
Grampy’s
pistol
falls.

The mugger’s pistol
swings my way.

I hear the shot
But I am already on my back
with excruciating pain in my chest.
Mary lays with me.
Must have been two shots.
The one I heard got Mary.
I see her face. She is not there.
My last prayer,
make sure I die, too, God!
The last thing I think
as I watch my ending
from within…

Just as well.


©Thomas Van Horn 2003


© Copyright 2017 Thomas Van Horn. All rights reserved.

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