The Bee Keeper
Continuing with the art theme, this is a drawing that took me almost 12 months to complete and a short piece of poetic prose for accompaniment.
The Beekeeper
My true name — my Medicine name,
is Walks With Turtle.
And if, one day, someone were to inquire,
tell them I just came to see the garden,
but they told me there is no room here
for thorns.
It took them fifty years to tell me;
by then I knew the Beekeeper.
There was a painting, a large painting
which I started before I could finish
properly; I was dispossessed at the time.
In the painting there was a valley, a
broad valley, a very broad valley between
two streams of mesa such that a
Surrealist might enjoy. It was a
broad valley and the mesas all looked
edible in a chancy — perhaps psychedelic,
sort of way. They were evil like twinkies,
all fluff and syrupy goo, and there were black
knights on black horses serving the
Dark Lord of Disintegration
(I was dispossessed at the time) riding down
out of the fluff into the broad valley,
each carrying a long, lethal, black lance
and they were attacking the White Buffalo
and their intent was
to Kill.
The Buffalo, all White but for a redness
about here and there from lanced wounds,
was defending the Feminine Mound in the
Center (the Center shall hold) of the broad valley,
destroying black knights and their steeds of evil
with compassionate fury and the mound,
the Feminine Mound, was surrounded by bones,
a bone yard, a charnel ground, and the
Lord and Lady were dancing there.
Of course they were.
In the foreground of the painting, well within
the radius of the charnel ground, there was a warrior,
historical rather than mythical, a Marine
infantryman decked out for combat patrol.
But the Marine was disintegrating into a
self-organized cloud of polymorphic shapes
in all the bright colors. The cloud, an organized self,
was moving in a purposeful manner, tracing out
a global pattern in configuration space which terminated
at/with the Oceanic realm, where myth becomes
mythologized.
As these polymorphic shapes embraced the Oceanic
they burst, they burst open at the forward end,
the purposeful end, and fully formed adult
butterflies emerged, colorful butterflies floating free.
There, just within the boundary of the Oceanic
was a black knight cowering on the ground
and towering above him a true Warrior, a
Spiritual Warrior, fully bearded and naked
but for a blood-red langouti, the sword of
death and discrimination drawn at his side
but his gaze and physical demeanor questioning
the Oceanic: Why? Why the death, the conflict, the
constant tension between brothers? Why the
Brother-Battle?
I was in the Marine Corps, a member of the Walking Dead, when it all began. I was intrigued by the “Wall of Honor.” I had read the stories, each one several times, and was mesmerized by the implied intensity, the brilliance of action thoroughly engaged without regard for personal continuity. Many of those honored were mere boys, innocent fodder in a game they couldn’t have possibly understood. But they cried berserkir and were carried to Val Halla by their very own Valkyrie. I had dreams while browsing that hallway . . . boy did I have dreams.
The girl drove an ice cream truck. She came through Camp Horno on a regular schedule and every time she did the barracks would empty. The girl was beautiful; her features were classically Nordic, framed by a velvety mane of black hair, and her eyes, a dark, penetrating, blue, a blue of the cold northern sea. The Marines bought her ice cream, not because they wanted ice cream, but because they wanted to believe she had come through just to see them; they were capturing successive moments directed towards a hopeful future. I rarely bought ice cream from the girl but I was certainly intrigued by her beauty.
The girl had an exquisite tattoo of a White Buffalo on her right shoulder; it was almost psychedelic and clearly significant. One day, after purchasing an ice cream sandwich, I asked the girl, “What does the White Buffalo mean?” She told me that, to her, it represented the wisdom of innocence. I chuckled and replied, “It would seem to me those two words are mutually exclusive.” “Do you think so,” she asked? I said, “Well yeah, but I’ll have to give it some thought.”
We went to the field shortly after this discourse and I didn’t see the girl for a while. After we returned from our field exercise, I went out to say hello the next time she came around. I gave her a book, a collection of poems written by patients in a mental hospital. She told me she couldn’t take the book, “I’m moving back to South Dakota,” she said. “Take it anyway,” I replied, “perhaps you’ll find some innocent wisdom among the passages.” She laughed and took the book. I never thought I’d see her again.
The civil war started with a bunch of riots. A young man was beat to death by overzealous law enforcement and the law officers were acquitted of any wrongdoing. The unrest spread across the whole country, like wildfire. A good number of my fellow Marines deserted to the civil side; they said, to them, it was a matter of loyalty, loyalty to the hood and the larger community represented by the hood ideal. I really didn’t know what to do in the beginning. I had joined the Marine Corps searching for the experience, the experience represented by the “Wall of Honor,” Stephen Cranes “Red Badge of Courage.” It seems foolish when I reflect back but I had never considered the experience could involve the intended destruction of my own people, as if it is somehow justified otherwise. In the end I stayed with the Marine Corps and tried not to think too deeply about the justification for my own actions and the actions of those around me.
The rebel forces were surprisingly well put together and the war lasted for a considerable duration; some would say it’s still on-going. My own experience culminated with a hard-fought battle in the Heartland, South Dakota’s badlands of all places. It was a brutal skirmish reminiscent of Custer’s last. The Marine force and the rebel force were both thoroughly decimated; there were only two survivors, myself and the girl. The girl had fought with the rebels and she was covered in blood, mud, smoke, and grit but still thoroughly beautiful. We approached one another and met on the top of a small rise. She looked at me, laughed, and said, “I guess the people who wrote the poems in that book weren’t so crazy after all.” I chuckled and replied, “No, I guess not.” The girl asked, “What do you suppose we should do now?” “I don’t know,” I replied, “I guess we should call somebody.”
I took the girl’s hand and together we walked off the hill and to the highway; we headed west towards the crossroads and a place called “Momma’s Diner.” When we got to the Diner all seemed surprisingly normal, like there wasn’t even a war going on. The place was empty except for a large, grandmotherly, black lady; she introduced herself as Momma and said all she had available was coffee and grits. The girl and I told her that sounded delicious, and I asked if I could use her phone. Momma pointed to a corner and told me to go ahead, if I could get a dial tone. The phone was working fine so I called 911 and told them about the skirmish; they said they’d send somebody out. The girl and I finished our coffee and grits but still no one had shown up, so we took off. We headed north up the highway.
For several days we traveled along the highway without seeing anyone. Finally, we came to a small shanty town. On the very edge of town was a large, pieced together, shanty which advertised itself as the “Last American Outpost.” As we approached the “Last American Outpost” a small, twin engine, prop plane appeared in the sky; it was towing a wingless wagon and having a hard time staying in the air. The girl and I stopped and watched with utter dismay. The pilot was giving her all she had but all she had wasn’t quite enough and the plane crashed into the side of a hill and burst into flame. The girl and I agreed it was a bad omen but we went into the “Outpost” anyway.
The “Outpost” was pieced together from sea containers, shipping crates, and pieces of corrugated metal. Inside was a long bar made from wooden planks situated on top of wooden crates and empty wire spools. Behind the bar was an ancient woman; she was topless and her old, weathered skin was covered in faded tattoos. Beside her was a large young man — a relative perhaps. He was shirtless as well and his entire upper body, head included, was tattooed with an American flag motif. Beside and slightly behind him was a younger girl — his sister perhaps — also topless and covered in tattoos, but her tattoos were fresh, abstract, almost alien yet tribal, and all in Day-Glo or neon colors. None of them were talkative at all. All they had to offer was homemade beer full of yeast and headaches but the girl and I were happy to have that.
While the girl and I were drinking our beer, three young, gothic looking, individuals came into the “Outpost.” They were all extremely pale in complexion but flushed with what seemed excitement or anticipation. The girl and I immediately sensed a pending blood-letting and were instantly aroused, suspicious, on-guard. I paid for the beer and asked the bartender if there was a back way out. He took my money and pointed to a dark hallway.
The hallway was formed by add-ons to the shanty; each add-on had its own door, like a hotel. The girl and I warily inched our way down the hallway and about halfway down, as we were passing a door, the door flew open. There was a young girl standing in the doorway, naked and covered in bruises; she looked at the girl and I, almost pleading with her young/old eyes. I immediately knew that her reality was harsh but that helping her was futile. A little piece of my soul shriveled up and died right there; I reached out to touch her face and an old man, also naked, came running to the door. He grabbed the girl and pulled her back into the room. Closing the door but for a crack he said, “Things here are none of your business; you’re best just to move on.” And with heavy hearts the girl and I did just that.
When we got outside it was dark and we could see the fire from the burning plane wreck. We ducked between two shanties and headed in that direction; we knew we were being followed. We ran a convoluted course to the edge of town, into some woods, and along a broad, slow moving, river. We could hear our pursuers and see their search lights probing the woods. When they got too close we jumped into the river and the water was cold . . . boy, was it cold. We ducked under the surface and swam downstream as far as our breath would allow. We continued to float downstream long after we lost sight of the burning plane wreckage. We emerged from the river at an old, abandoned, gravel pit. I gathered some dry wood, built a fire, and the girl and I, shivering, took our wet clothes off and laid them out by the fire to dry. The girl and I looked at one another, each admiring the other’s naked beauty. We laughed with comfortable familiarity and fell into it; we lost ourselves in one another; we made love for the first time.
At daybreak things were irrevocably changed between the two of us. We were now consummated lovers, a beserkir and Valkyrie, a continuum of love manifest in a world of madness. The whole world was changed, brighter, more colorful, distinct and hopeful. We left the gravel pit and headed west on an old river road. We came to a highway and shadowed it, heading southwest, away from the shanty town. We traveled for a long time without incident; it was an all too brief period of gladness.
After a while we came to an abandoned Arboretum. We were out of water so the girl and I split up and went in search of a fresh water source. I found water and hollered at the girl but didn’t receive an answering response. I filled up all of my containers and headed back to the Arboretum entrance, our agreed upon rendezvous. When I walked out of the Arboretum I was greeted with horror; a half dozen goths from the shanty town had the girl spread out in the back of an old Ford truck and they were raping her; in a second I recognized them as members of my own family. They were engaging in this violent act with obvious glee and they were looking at me with evil contempt, gloating, apparently thinking I was too cowardly. They hadn’t really known me for awhile, perhaps never had. The beserkir, the bear, the destroyer, and in short order the goths, my family members, lay scattered, bloody, and dead. I grabbed the girl and pulled her to me and she wept like a soul possessed. I stroked her beautiful mane and did what I could to comfort her but there was no comfort; the world was dark, gray, smeared, and futile.
After a while the girl looked at me with infinite sadness and said, “It’s no good; our fairy tale is over. I can’t be with you any longer, from here into the indeterminate my journey is alone, a cleansing.” I knew the girl’s soul and admired her heart so I could only smile in sad resignation. “If ever you need me,” I said, “think of me with all the force of your beauty and perhaps . . .” She gave me a last, tearful, smile before walking away and said, “Thanks, thanks for that.”
Echoes of time in a brow furrowed
by insistent memories of ugliness
surrounded by misery infused with
suffering, an ache in a forgotten soul
caressed by a cradle of renewal promised
but never delivered, intrude on
thoughts indifferent as life.
The race to death transpires
in slow, drawn out, increments
inspiring hatred and revulsion
for the indifferent beast.
Nothing but a dog chained short
by unseen manipulations, can you
blame a man for hatred?
Fury harnessed and directed
to the gravest damage –
indifference . . .
smothered by indifference.
War takes its toll
in spite of hearts
hardened by indifference,
fortuitous indifference;
Fury, Rage, a beastly
deliverance,
Fury, Rage . . .
and blood.
I could write a Manifesto
but no one who read it
would survive.
Stare into the black heat
of indifference
and die like the rest.
Can I offer you a crumb?
Flowers sprout from the rotting corpse;
beauty, indifferent to the
feast of death, is a
momentary respite in the
dark pool of
indifference.
Ideas, once brilliant,
crystalline, apparently magic,
transform under stress induced by
indifference.
The vision, a pointless panacea,
swallowed by a black hole of
indifference.
So cry foul and feed the Dark Heat;
I will pursue thee to the
pits of Hell, my home within,
and I will feed you to the
Grief.
Dog eat dog I do entertain,
feral, surreal, destitute,
a starving parasite and you,
a snack before the feast . . .
the feast of indifference.
I am a monster.
Kill me before I eaten another!
Cry executioner and rape the
killing field; feed the gaping mouth of hunger –
indifference.
Attack with brutal fury
and lethal rage or leave me
to my indifference,
savage, brutal, all consuming
indifference . . .
nothing is as it appears;
all is folly, pointless folly.
I no longer dream . . .
After the girl left I went to the desert and I stayed in the desert. It was my own cleansing, the sickness bleached and dried by the incessant heat, a purge by flame. I wandered aimlessly for what seemed an eternity. I experienced many adventures and came to know myself well but it just wasn’t the same. One day, several years after losing the girl, I felt a tingling in the depths of my mind, a presence. I rotated slowly until discovering the direction in which the presence was most pronounced and then I started running.
I saw the carrion eaters from a long way off and I knew I was too late. I kept running anyway and my precognition was rewarded with a gruesome sight. The girl lay dead and the carrion eaters had already stolen her beautiful blue eyes. I collapsed and wept; I stroked her beautiful hair and told her for the first time that I loved her. I was lost in grief for hours which seemed eternal. I sat with her for days.
Finally, I became composed enough that I realized I needed to take care of the girl’s decomposing body. I looked around, found a suitable location, and started to dig with my knife. Barely had I begun when an ancient man, a grandfather among the First Peoples, appeared and spoke to me in a strange language I somehow understood. “Stop your digging,” he said, “The girl chose her manner of life and her manner of death. Her name was Alluvia the Allmerciful and she was wise in her innocence. She deserves to be honored in death by the traditions of old.” With the grandfather’s instruction, I prepared the girl’s body in the ancient way; I surrendered her to the desert, closing the cycle.
After we were through with the last ceremony, after the last chant had been sung, I looked at the grandfather and asked, “Where did you come from?” He looked at me rather quizzically and replied, “I didn’t come from anywhere; I’ve always been here.” “Ah, yes,” I replied, “I’m no longer dispossessed either.” At that the grandfather laughed until he started to wheeze. When he recovered, he placed his hand on my shoulder and told me, “Keep following the Shadow, as you have been, and you will be fine . . . you will be okay.” And then he started to walk off, chanting in that same strange language, “On a visible breath I am walking . . .” And as he walked away he transitioned into an infinite stream of multi-colored, dancing, photons of energy, like a hooked light ray.
