Do Not Believe

[The Buddha says: Do not believe,
just because wise men say so…]

Smoke’s rising now, the offerings of incense as each prayer
floats across the room in a tapestry of hope
Breathing in deeply it fills my lungs
drowning me for an instant in powerful fragrance
The aroma of everything that man has
ever wanted

[…Do not believe,
just because it has always been that way…]

Light’s shooting through the stained glass
The only real truth we have is filtered by our expectations
As we color the sun’s rays in earnest, thinking
perhaps they are not beautiful enough

[…Do not believe,
just because others may believe so…]

How could we be so wrong as to think that
it really can be that simple
Studying the ancients only leads us into the
same circles we have drawn for ourselves
The sage sits silently, does he know
why the trees lose their leaves
when they need their warmth
the most

[…Examine, and experience, for yourself.]

What’s hard to grasp is how the tales over time become truth
Mud turns to stone if you let it sit long enough
Truth’s so easy to manufacture, in the form of
long life and freedom
What they feed you is hope
until you have so much you’re drunk on it
and stop searching for the truth that might destroy us
The greatest failure is the
failure to realize that
it is not about the answers you receive
It is about the questions
you ask

- Andrew David King

Belly Dancer

the twanging sitar
her perfect body, a fluid column
riding the twilight air as cool as the waters of the Euphrates
jangling gold coins sewn into a tapestry of desire across her breasts
her skin, the pure treasure of Arabia’s lore
the crowd surrounding covered in fine sand
men staring anxiously tossing tarnished dinars by her delicate feet
the dust rising, the ghost of a genie in some forgotten lamp
the drums speeding up
the sweat pouring down my face like coveted rain
she moves as a snake on hot sand
emerald eyes casting jewel glares into a forbidden oasis
the desert breeze pushing back the flap of my frayed robe
the haphazard wires and black vest suddenly exposed
so mechanical against the ancient endless backdrop of nature
the man standing across from me now glancing away from her golden figure
his eyes registering me, my thoughts, my utter necessity
the drums pounding faster, faster
her tan arms, serpents seeking the sun
my hands trembling as i reach for the cord
the man opens his mouth but no noise escapes
and suddenly everything has turned
to white

- Andrew David King

Auditions

[a man who wants to lead the orchestra must turn his back on the crowd]
James Crook

Throwing down his conductor’s wand he casts me
a gaze speckled with little black hate spots. His voice
creaks like a rusty hinge, weak, but the words sting
all the same. “If you want to play
like that, then you can leave. I’ll kick you out of this band.
The door’s right there.” I know where the door is but I say
nothing. We play on. I put a smile on my face and pretend
it’s not really a grimace inside. I feel the music vibrating my bones
and it has become a part of me. The symbols on the paper are nothing but a foreign
language and I am but a foreigner in their midst. I try to understand.
But two minutes later it seems that
nothing’s good enough. With a plump red hand he furiously signals
the music to stop. His forlorn eyes find me, hiding
in the back row, awaiting another verbal assault. Part of me wants
to reach for my instrument case and forget this whole ordeal. “I don’t understand.
I told you to play your part right. What’s wrong with you?” As if no one else is
making mistakes, I think. He points to the door a second time
as if he knows he doesn’t even need to say it again. But he does.
“If you want to leave, then leave now. Don’t waste my time.” I have to pause
for a second to think about who’s time is really being wasted here. My ego rises
to my cheeks, fists balled in defense. I don’t want to make a scene. But still,
he doesn’t want me here, need me here, any of those things. Grabbing my
case, notation papers fluttering across the floor like injured birds
flapping their wings wildly, I stand up. They all stop. They stare.
Suddenly the door is no longer what I thought it was. It is an entrance,
not an exit. “It’s okay. I won’t stay where I’m not wanted.” Now
his nose is scrupled up next to his beady eyes
in a despising sneer. I return his stare right back,
a battle of icy glares. As I start to move towards
the door it feels that his enmity will follow me outside. With each
measured step the load is lighter. I won’t stay where I have
no place, where my life passion has become background static. “You know
if you leave, you’ll never be allowed to come back.” I don’t
turn around as I walk straight out, the door shutting
behind me with the sound of the pages of a book as they close. In an instant
I have changed between two worlds. The open atmosphere of the street
embraces me with the familiarity of an old friend, wrapping
me in whirling movements of sound. Footsteps
cross the pavement, nomads in a concrete desert,
composing heartfelt preludes. The rush of tires
against asphalt is a beautiful melody harmonizing with the wind’s
whispering overtures. Birds take flight in groups, a crescendo of gray
pastel shades. The towering skyscrapers dwarf my small figure,
casting me into the cool shadow of summer sonatas. In such awe
as of now I close my eyes and let these unwritten
compositions of beauty wash over me. My case falls out of my hand
to the ground. The music papers float down the street,
an armada of ghosts, wrinkled and crumpled, written
in that nonsensical gibberish of symbols and technicalities and lost meanings
that they have invented so much meaning for. All at once
I remembered how good it was to feel
the fresh air again. How glorious the ringing sounds
of life were in my ears. In a sudden burst of unbelief and anger and confusion but truthfulness and knowledge and even a bit of happiness I realize that
this was the only symphony ever worth hearing
anyways. He might have been the better musician, but
after all, that meant nothing because his ears were closed
to the true music. In this gigantic masterpiece
I lay content, not out of place, but for one time just
a part of things. This was my opus, my
symphony, and for once, I was content
just to listen.

- Andrew David King

Contrast

As I sit here tonight
contemplating
the differences between
life and death
the cold wraps it arms
around me
dissipating what little warmth
was left
into a fantasy

The whitewashed walls
of the church
across from the hall
against this black sky
define my boundaries
in an attempt
to keep me
from going back inside
my warmth reappearing
greeting me with open arms

Cigarette smoke defines this scene
that I have separated myself from
the party continues
the dance goes on
set to the throbbing bass
that is this generation’s
heartbeat
reds and greens and blues
our electric artificial
rainbow
illuminating through dirty unwashed windows high above
the vacant lot
outside the hall
filled with the parishioners
who two hours ago sat in the simple church
now a stone-cold tomb
reflecting in the light
of the dance floor
across the way from me
sending a shard of the rainbow
through the stained glass
flashing across the altar
for half a second
now wading in darkness
as if the light was no more
than a temporary and tempting miracle

They had finished
with their solemnities
hours ago
and now dance
as close as they can to each other
drenched in their own
sweat
slowly becoming the sparkle
of the strobe
as parking lot lights
disintegrate into darkness instantly
giving up after so many years
of shining through
the blackness
on their own
for no one
nothing

Shaking the ground
the heartbeat speeds up
as if anxious
to be saved
delivered into the heaven
they had prayed for not so long ago
as the lights flick back on
not dead
just sleeping

And they all dance
not far from their
pledge to the right path
the church
dark and silent now
in awe of the shattering sounds
and flashing lights
that color its white walls in the blackness
the difference between holiness and licentiousness
between happiness and avarice
life and death
and suddenly the human need
for contrast
becomes so apparent
as the horizon too
fades into black

- Andrew David King

McPherson Street Station

bathing in the cold
orange light of arc-sodiums
emanating from the streetlight above
the bum asks me for change
through his broken and toothy mouth
soot covering his filthy face
but I got nothing to give him
at this early morning hour
city skyline not even visible
the last star yet to fade

I step out from time
and onto the stairs of the
subway channel I must take to work
so that my family
may at least eat
cement steps echo my heavy strides
it would hurt real bad
to fall down here
I tell myself
as I step onto the platform
as usual
and wait patiently for my train
forever too far away
that I must wait here in this grungy and dirty pigsty
in the flickering light of broken halogens
where graffiti speaks prophecies
of a new generation’s fate

we all look around
all of us standing here in our worn clothes
anxious, as if waiting for a messiah
not a subway train
a light appears on the tracks as if on cue
the screech and scream of metal against metal
gnaws at your ears as if
the car itself was in pain
and I wait patiently as they all board

all the seats are taken
but I’m not surprised
I’m used to standing up anyway
holding onto the railing
like it’s my only hope
the routine
the only thing to keep me from falling
when the train’s velocity takes over
and I look through the scraped-up windows
at the cement walls we pass by
black from the dirt and coal
the occasional blue lights marking tunnel exit doors
leading up to the real world above
speed by as if they’re
in a hurry to go
exactly opposite my direction
running away from some monster
that I failed to notice

the journey continues
through the dark netherworld
ready to swallow me whole
this deep and neverending chasm
steamy and ranking of rotting garbage
so godless and absent
I think of the poor man I passed by
I didn’t have a cent to give him
symbol of poverty
of human misery
and suffering
and I think
if there’s a place hell is like
it’s here

the train pulls to a stop
the screeching is muffled this time
but it hurts your ears all the same
the rickety doors creak and whine
as if it took them
every ounce of their strength
just to open
the newspapers ruffle as passengers board
just a few at this early time
but enough to be noticed
with their leather and fur jackets
and hand-tailored suits
shoes shining like the midnight moon
perfect hair and all shaved
heading down to the financial district
makes us workers look like we just ran through the mud
and haven’t washed in days

differences between our groups become
a little more apparent
if only I could be like them
then I’d be happy
they have security
contentment and safety
all that I long for

how great that’d be
to drive nice cars
and work in tall office buildings
that reach up to the heavens themselves
have your coffee made for you
as you roll in the money you made yesterday
new clothes whenever you don’t like
how they look anymore
dinner out on the town
affluence replaces concern
money replaces worry
what a life
when you’re not even worried about
how you’re going to eat tonight
what you’re going to do
to put food on the table
to stay alive

I sigh quietly
and my daydream slowly fades away
like the last shred of light in the tunnel
gone along with my temporary fantasy
destined never to occur
as the gray suited man
in shiny leather shoes
reading the stocks section of the newspaper
sitting down while I stand here
speaks to his friend in a confident tone
not realizing that everyone else can hear their conversation
and the icy grasp of silence
takes over the subway car
except for the two of them
heads turn for a moment
and then look back
pretending as if they weren’t interested
not surprised by the sound
and all the time I’m thinking
how great it’d be
to be like him

Isn’t this great, he says to his friend
Just fantastic
this war is so great for our economy
providing the country with so much income
private investors are all stoked
just like me, he says
and now most of us are listening
and his friend nods Yes, yes
new jobs and new opportunities
and the war encourages industry
the production of goods
improving our quality of life, he says
I’m so happy we’re still fighting over there
for the country and the good of the state
isn’t this just wonderful, fantastic
isn’t life great
hopefully we’ll stay over there for a while
he pauses
his friend agrees
Yes, the military industries are providing
so much money and new jobs
it’s really a success
and nobody says anything
they’re all too busy
looking away
feigning indifference

in the back of my mind
I think of my boy
out there
in the boiling sun
halfway around the world
from this subway car
that traps me
holding that gun in his hands
and the possibility that it all could end so suddenly
seemed so imminent
a vision matching perfectly
with the landscape around me
dark and cold and
uninviting and sterile
and my son
he was not going to die
for this man’s profit
as long as I had a say

on impulse
I walk over
and grab his business newspaper
open to the stocks page
and throw it down, out of his hands
ripping it
as if it was the cause of my distress
the source of my troubles
and in some ways it is
but I know better
and he stares at me with shocked eyes
but he knows better

Look, mister
I say quietly
only half the car can hear me, almost silent
your profit rises with the death toll
and look at you
so rich, I wish I could be like you
I wish I could be like all of you
not a worry in the world
but you don’t even pay attention to
the cost
you say hopefully ‘we’ll’ stay over there
but ‘we’ doesn’t include you
unless you’re out there carrying a gun
risking your life for
this benefit you go on and on about
all you do is benefit
take and take and take
but never give
and the whole car can hear me now

I look him in the eyes
the first time I ever felt pity for someone
with a hand-tailored suit
and I
thinking of my boy
with all my courage
smack him across the face
with my hands now shaking
like everyone else’s in the train
How dare you
I tell him
don’t tell me that life’s so good
when your son isn’t
out there on the front lines

the rest of the car stares in disbelief
somewhat satisfied
the man looking over at me
shocked
and he and his friend
turn and walk briskly to another seat far away
unable and unwilling
to return such a confrontation
as one by one
we arrive at our destinations
that we had waited so long for
while caged in this prison
this microcosm
of life
that rattles along on the tracks
in the darkness

as silence returns to reign
we can almost hear
the rhythmic beats of our hearts
running out of sync
with the wheels of the car
as it barrels down its neverending path
click-clack click-clack click-clack
I sit back down and think
absorbing the impact of all that
had just occurred
and I tell myself
I lied
I would never really want
to be like them
ever

- Andrew David King

Downpour

it rained so hard last night.

when I awoke suddenly
to hear the water and the wind
I almost forgot where I was, lost in the mist of the new reality
pounding against my windows in the extending grayness
that permeated the landscape
of my view through glass into the outer world.

it seemed like time stopped.

and it seemed like I stopped, just for a moment, lifting myself
in and out of consciousness
remembering to breathe and blink and hold on
knowing that the only thing that separated me from the devouring flood
was a structure human hands had made.

and as I stared out into eternity, I thought to myself
what is this
what am I
through the sheets of water that poured out themselves
from some unknown above.

illuminated by a thousand city lights each drop glowed
like dull amber in the evening sun
as I struggled to breathe and think and hope
that I was awake and this wasn’t another nightmare
and so I lay contentedly silent as the dirt that is washed away
from the world by pure water.

it rained so hard last night
but I didn’t forget
the dreams that had comforted me
for so long through the storm.

- Andrew David King