..."Bing"...Part 5...full version available on Lulu...

5:

Hate to say it was an uneasy ten hours, as the feeling was an underpinning of my fear.  Having not seen the man and really get to understand his contraption brought trepidation throughout this whole caper.

I could hear the three of them, distinguishable by their unique footfalls; they were making circular sweeps.  Da Vinci knew enough, but, like a novice, they only went as far as the light would fall from the campfire.  With cloud cover it was pitch black otherwise. They were in such a hurry - as they thought they were going to simply kill me - they carried no kit and no torches. Had they a standard light, they would have found me laying mere yards away.

Whatever Da Vinci had, he seemed to be wearing it.  It sounded 60 pounds heavier than he should.  I had him pegged at about 110 pounds, by the descriptions I received from at least four witnesses.  The footfall seemed to be much more substantial than a size 12.  For five hundred years old, he was as limber and adroit as his guides. And I pegged them in their early twenties.

....

My watch had 1:48a. The conversation had stopped. They must be resting, with at least one on guard duty. If I enter the right way, I could at least take one out. Da Vinci was always the wild card.

I took a knee, a little wobbly from shifting the blood around, and carefully did one quick pop above the brush line. In that half-second, I saw that both guides were sitting near the fire. They were not moving: no sign of Da Vinci.

I checked my weapons, made sure, for the thousandth time, that the safety was released. This was going to be a quick fight. I had the two guides for sure. I'd have to play it by ear for the bastard. If I was lucky, he was asleep, and I'd have time to trip him up before killing him. At worst, he had set a trap and would kill me easily.

Either way, it's now or never. I rushed forward, the switchgrass like a curtain when I came upon the camp.


...full version available on Lulu...

...longing...

a child knows, through legacy, to grasp when it desires
and the plant leans into the light, its roots where dampness resides
the fertile rich of touch
the deep ancient elements of life
only satisfied when found

what can be done then, when the shops close
and the sun retires, and the streets lay
empty and bare?
the air does not want for me
it's breezes disinterestedly past
as I walk aimlessly forward

the dark and shadowed copses
of Harbor Boulevard, the lights gone
by this time of night
offer nothing but repose
my foot falls like intruders to no one
in response

the warm-less glow of dawn in a few hours
may offer something, but I don't care
for it much, very little
it means less in light of you
would it not be so

breathe moment to sullen moment
from the glorious moment that will not repeat
(nor I repent) from the awakening blush
that proves the rule
I had a heart
once

...V...deux

spent
like last week's paycheck
on cigarettes and dollar menu items
can't even look at myself on account of the dark circles
and oily hair
the television's burnt out
the liquid crystal is toast
and the smell of plastic rises out
in a welcoming draft of warmth
if not for the smell
I would enjoy it

but
you are passion's fruit
like it cannot be obtained
by any means within me
since distance is demanding rule
and I've no power
to change it

and
you but stare at words
and cull over them briefly
there's not much there i know
though I long beyond all
that there could be

and
my headache is richly deserving
the mark at the end of bad poem
rolled out much like sickening velvet
in garish red lights
I dreaded as
a child

but
there's you, real in its intent,
though aloft like golden fruit
once spoke of in the papyrus of the Greeks
before their library blew up in flames
(by passion?)

and
the light in your eyes could
rebuild the Colossus of Rhodes
and restore its glory as there's you:
a goddess from the gates of Parnassus
or the green of early spring on Rodna
the exhalation you make in the air
that I would melt for
the stars would be the happy chorus
watching o'er
the Muses watch over you
V

...a golden thread...lyrics...pass deux...

...
the dappled light of night and tungsten
I fell, clumsy to the last
reaching out with open hand
and finding nothing in which to cling
far from you
...
the ground came to meet me with
thoughtless shadows wrapped about
leaving little pride, less than storybook
and warmless light
...
human to the last failing foresight
and staring at days that stretch quietly across
the scrap of stone like a helioscope
devoid its novelty
...
there's a golden thread that leads to your heart
not so much lost as simply said
it is from me
...
meager existence when one is blind to sense
my gentle hands seem only to find dust
upon their return from the stillness
of shadows
....
despite all despite me that thread is elusive
as if Erabos had taken it to the fringe
of thought and reason
and forgotten it himself
...
but here I am and you'll rise above all else
so whispered echoes won't reply
but find themselves in the bosom of stone
and wane away
...
there's a golden thread that leads to you
if I'll not find it
may the one that does find it brilliant
just the same
...

..."Bing"...Part 4 (abridged)...now available on Lulu...

4:

I could sense him out there – my hackles would go all in a tizzy when death was near.  No matter where I found myself, from Shanghai to Palm Springs, the hairs on my nape would get the tingles and I'd go all queasy - that was proof enough for me.  I was smartly cautious, although dear Africa wasn't going to make that an easy chore.

Trekking away from my humble soapstone abode and into the brush, reminiscent of switchgrass (or some other form of virgatum), grew 6 feet tall along this strip of savanna, which made it a perfect ground for hiding. But, as prey and predator can be easily reversed in the wild, I had to be the smarter one here.

....

Once or twice, as I was in mid-movement, I could hear the snap of a large thing reacting.  There were only two options: fight or stay still.  My eyes scanned the area above the brush.  I did await a silhouette so I could shoot it.  But, I heard it walk away. Better then, I said to myself, it would have been a bad way - I would've shot one of his henchmen, allowing him time to fight back.  Not knowing by what means he could kill me, I could not simply walk up to him like a Saturday morning matinee Western.

The second time I stayed real quiet, like a teacup at dinner, for at least a half of an hour. The sound never returned. The queasiness persisted. I should have also mentioned it must have been 90 degrees out and humidity that never eased, no matter the wind speed. My clothes were a mash of sweat and oil. The sweat was bad enough - every time I attempted to look up, my eyes would burn. But I could wait this bastard out despite him having the advantage.

The sun hit the center of the sky.  During the apex of the heat, I crawled to a short bush that allowed me a bit of a reprieve.  I allowed myself to pass out for minutes at a time.  It was a stupid move, but it wasn't by choice, believe you me.

I checked the brush around me when I came to, not one imprint of a step was made: a good sign. The bad juju that clung to me for the better part of the day was starting to wane. I'll take that Da Vinci may be good at killing, but not so at the hunt.  Most of the deaths he inflicted were simply outright, nothing subtle in the approach. However, as bad as he was at not being quiet about murder, he was a tit-mouse when it came to hiding.  My tactic was to hang as close to the fringe of his trail as I could.  It took two or three times to get back on him again - being out in the wilds I doubt I'd have to do the same.

....

I couldn't sleep now, it would have been dumb. I could hear their conspiratorial conversations in the dark. I just had to wait out 2am, the witching hour, and take them all out if the good Lord would let me.

...on to Part 5...full version available on Lulu...