Pat Benetar blasts on an open field. Antiquated cannons and muskets adorn smog curtains and drapes, a smoke so thick it could be bottled and sold at half price. Give us this day our daily supermarket’s past. The ghosts of fruit to come. Blades of grass stunned with the spatter of idealist lifeblood. The pink and grey matter of pawns adorn the trenches, only to be covered in mud and dirt and snow and ice. Knife in the heart, rifle in the gut tears of the hurt and mentally scarred. These are the things that never make the letters, but tattoo the mind indelibly. Fainting in the flashback of anchored moment. Markers upon the timeline of a too-long life. Squashed with fear and terror and I cannot lift that anchor back; the chain is rusted and I am tired and rooted to the spot. My trunk is immobile and rounded by years of planting. My toes will grow into the ground and drink up the water table on that battlefield where I almost died with my friends, long ago. To heal the sound, I need a ritual. I need a medicine man to take me out of this repetitious cycle.
