The Brave Pedestrian

We bleed, dear ones We bleed. Bleed together Bleed apart Peripherically aware Of the pain that we cause The cuts we inflict With sword With shield Blindingly aware of The white heat of pain That we ourselves feel Struck by An adversary's sword Or an ally's shield. We knew of the pain to follow when swords were drawn. Yes, we knew. "Live by the sword Die by the sword," We sportingly said. But Pain, my friend, Is more real Than all the philosophy in the world. We bleed And pay the price for drawing first blood Or failing to. Pray that the adversary's sword was clean. Pray that the ally's shield was clean. Pray that our own blood is clean. Pray that the wound is clean. Pray that the pain that we suffer Is Clean. Pray that the tears That blind us Are clear, purifying. Pray for Cleanness Clarity Purity. But pray not for Peace. Seek not the peace that Makes the sword rust in its sheath. Wounds shall heal But rusted swords... Ah, my friends What can we do to ease th...

When the cold steel sliced into my belly, There was no pain, only discomfort. Gazing into her eyes from a kissing distance, I wondered Did they show betrayal, hatred Or did they continue to speak of love? Maybe both. Maybe neither. They spoke a brutal truth: “You are you and I am I... And since you question that, Let your flowing blood answer your questions.” Ah! Blackness came and went. Life ebbed with each heartbeat. Blood in spurts stained her fingers As they held the dagger firmly in place. They were the reason I was still standing. And then came the release And a gentle shove backward Dropped me to the floor, still gazing. We never lost eye-contact Even when my head struck the stair With a crack that rang deep in my nostrils. Kneeling, she took the kerchief from my pocket Deliberately wiped each finger clean And caressed my cheek. I pouted, Mmmwah. A silent flying kiss. She playfully caught it in her hand And...

…was pressing the blunt heavy chopper to his throat unnecessarily hard, grinding it into adam’s apple. “Die, you filthy monk! You lying dirty bastard! You betrayed the trust with which I sent my wife to prostrate before you… swine! Now you die!” he was screaming into his ear. Guru Vaastava wished his disciples would learn to express even anger in a gentle whisper. A trickle of blood soaked the saffron cloth on his chest. His mind was numb from the sudden attack of this obedient disciple, Ramana, in the dead of night. Oh yes, he remembered Ramana’s wife… how could he not remember those perfectly-formed white thighs? How could he forget the look of surprised pleasure in her eyes? He remembered how he had bid her to lie on her back in the prayer room, in front of the black stone linga that she had so lovingly rubbed with sandalwood. Under the stony gaze of the hooded serpent, he had gently caressed her toes and feet as she lay whimpering in passion… caressed her calf-muscles with a c...