Enjoy art and poetry from the November 2020 issue

And So the Prophet Returns

The Age of Vipers was one of darkness and deceit, of wicked self-serving men interested only in profiting for themselves at the expense of the public by manipulating and controlling resources and information.

Before that there was the Age of Hope and Reason, when people saw things for what they really were in a culture of uniform optimism. But in the beginning, there was nothing—nothing but men wandering, wandering everywhere while looking for order and meaning so they could find a place to put things that they have collected in their many years of wandering. The women, of course, were not given to that; they had more sense than the men and knew to stay at their homes and keep things safe and well as it should be. They knew the men would cease from their useless wandering eventually and come back to be with them.

The Prime Wanderer is the Man of No Ambition. “Why should I have to do anything?” he says to himself. He looks at things differently than everybody else, and realizes that most men endeavor to advance their economic and social status, but for what reason? To them it is only an attempt to fulfill a perception of superiority or loftiness. The Man of No Ambition sees through this false pursuit of worldly gain and understands that the real pursuit is spiritual progress. With this attitude he is intent to do only what the world requests of him, and he maintains a presence to the ones who wish to be connected to him. Yet here he is, without Ambition, and continually wandering, in and out of the darkness and Light. For a time it defines his existence.

The Prime Wanderer was actually a prophet who had left his home long ago. He left everyone he knew and loved in search for meaning. In their hearts everyone wanted him to stay at home with them, but they knew that he needed to send himself out; he was too restless a soul to stay.

And so went the wandering year after year, for many years, until the day came when, being weary of wandering, the last wanderer wandered no more, and wandered on to a place, and in that place many people had eventually gathered, and in their somnambulistic state, they were staring rather remotely and somewhat expectantly at their hands, as if there was something to see, or maybe if they stared long enough at them, something would be seen eventually. He wandered in amongst them, looking intently at their faces. One by one they turned, awakening from their somnambulistic state, and looked on him as he walked by. One of them approached finally and said, “Cousin, you have returned.”

The Last Wanderer had come home, and recognizing this, he decided to deliver a few words to those that gathered—the only words that he had spoken for a long time. He ascended a small pile of debris close by, and the prophet began his Lament:

“As I stand upon this pious pile of rubble and deliver my pontification, while endless preoccupied people listen with covered ears, I come to the revelation that… during the darkest time of the year is when the most inspiration can come.”

“It’s all written,” he said, “I just have to put it into words.”

-Written by Vad Idsski. Vad Idsski works and lives in the Tri-Cities.

Planted

ACAB

Less than a block away from her house
He’s been following me from the bar
Why didn’t I pretend I lived closer
Every turn signaled, speed in check, I can make it

Lights flash, lies told, cuffs tight
No cameras in the car, he talks openly
My life fucked for his promotion
Bag of white on the ground as he opens my door
“This can’t be yours, you were a really nice guy”

-Written by anonymous