Thursday, July 28, 2011

Girl in the Tower

Sauntering like a tank through the forest
The eyes of a melanistic jaguar

Upon the tower that she built herself into
Waiting for a magnificent hero
a riding prince  on a white horse, that assuredly gallops the paths of the forest
proud and beautiful and strong and compassionate and just and righteous and pure and glorious and virtuous and well-spoken and  handsome and tall and noble and wealthy and magnificent in every way.
Who rides into the depths of the jungle to save the princess
To rescue her from…

What exactly?

take her from her own tower,
carry her back to his castle, where she may reside without lifting a finger
bring her a sense of purpose in telling the maidens what to do
feel complete.
Within a sense of comfort and finished product
an understanding of words
words that symbolize finalization
words that mean more than they do

in a jungle teeming with variety and life and something so far away
from the alabaster tiles
that pave that castle
where the shimmering eyes of the forest swell
the river under the incessant rain rises
and the trees here remember how the buttress’ formed
the liana drink it like palm wine and orchids that vomit their vibrant sexuality

because nothing is quite like the original,

the hand-picked stones that comprise that tower
unearthed from some frost-bitten quarry
carried, by hand, one at a time
one heartfelt line of dialogue woven of yarn
used as mortar
galvanized in mistrust

and the tower grew, and grew
when the scaffolding fell away
the excess timber had been burned
and birds fled

a standing structure
from the shade of great trees
the forest creatures looked on in confusion
where previously unimaginable
stone and yarn built a monument
to the concepts of unobtainable

it’s eyes shutting softly,  masking the hurt
become  invisible in the crepuscular world
where a monument dwarfed everything with its ideals of man

a monument forgotten by its creator
an abandoned  object of vandalism
waiting for a prince to liberate the girl inside

while respirating forest said nothing of the fungi that dissolved his bones
said nothing of the sickness that he suffered from the bite

of a single


the melanistic jaguar watched his white armor become soiled
as convulsions took hold
brought on by the ensuing fever
and prince or not, ended his life tenderly with more than a kiss to the neck

looked upon the tower unable to tell its secular inhabitant what happened
follies are no place for great cats
where imitation is only as good as its core
and could not even travel the beaten paths of thick jungle
(…not that the prince was carrying a ladder or anything)

sorrow could not reincarnate
what human weaknesses became overlooked

within ambiguous desires
the jungle recovers slowly
where it was razed around the base of the tower

eventually the liana will engulf it
the ferns will take up residence within its decaying mortar
and it’s one nude resident

will leave.

The only way to truly have anything is to be a part of it;
not simply to reside within it
behind fortified walls

waiting for better.

In the reflection of the rising and falling river
The melanistic jaguar’s eyes fade…
from a color of innocence
To a shade of experience
Lapping up cool clear water with its large tongue

Forgetting the past
Crayfish saunter under the surface
As they eat the same algae
that thickly coats their shells

while everything waits for the liana to overrun the tower
a matter of time
becomes the currency
the Ficus scheme to place one of their own  upon the precipice
the monument will become internalized.
A standing futuristic tower coated in vegetation

there is only one law of the jungle:


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