OF A FILM ON THE WESTERN CAMPAIGN

72. OF A FILM ON THE WESTERN CAMPAIGN:

[THIS piece has been dropped here in honor of Spring and to note the passing of Winter. In addition, it is written to show how the recurrent passage of all things returns us, over and over, to source and origination. The primeval, creative and conceptual 'Life Force'.].......
It is not that which is loved by Man and neither was it ever sought to be and the windward lass yellow-bird harbinger of Spring comes on - one without effort making no affront and reading nothing special as along the horizon the morning sky at new dawn it winces winter-hard and high on the left a new crescent moon lingers ahead or behind of its day no one knows and thick with gray clouds the roseate sky runs its own backdrop of ice and snow and sunlight arising as from this distance all things falling fall only in relation to one another and THEREBY nothing changes and slide-fast steady the sleek cars slip past the woods still unbroken but waiting and the rivulet streams beneath roadways and pipes are well-hid by endless new houses and roads where they’re left blackbirds and errant squirrels everything tired and gone for Winter so if anyone speaks it’s the ‘dawn of a new age’ as the old year disappears in the deepest-stock-trade of morning nearly already exhausted by light and in some expectations we fail while in others we rise to every occasion and aren’t we anyway all less lost than perplexed by now chance and random fissures in the fragmented firmament of everything holy but the bright gentleman in his cloak cries loudly "look nothing is sovereign any more" and the crowd hosannas and the old cars stop dead and the hills where the tractors left them deconstruct themselves back to other days wider times than these with oh so farther better tales to tell "what is all the thundering?" the High Priest says as he looks high skyward too and sees but jets and man-made glints of steel but ‘how high the moon mama?’ the chorus starts singing but it never ends having forgotten an ending and the muzzle-toting cadavers of midnight rise up from their soil and re-ignite old passions and flames in their night while the flugleman standing under a withering flag plays already his piccolo alone to the mighty dirge of marching men and wailing screams of the wives they’ve left behind and the cadence I’ve heard before I know "one-ten from Idaho and twelve-twenty-three from Ohio the boys from Vermont come back we know to their small Connecticut tents" and the plodding march of these opposing camps detest the cold and sit to play cards or idly drink chatter and stumbling through the décor of war they acclaim all they see "ah ‘tis always a wonder the sights these treks bring the landed and lost those high-class palaces with their daughters and sons" and they start laughing stumbling bending and falling and with no other words the dogs arrive frothing with deer and raccoon and every small bit of dead frozen meat they can find in the ravenous craws and dead to the world they roll over to die and Lily Marlene that goddess of Welch steps high to the stage with well-kicking legs and high alto belch singing ‘this’ll be the day when we die and every man will know his job and even the Corporal will try to live past this day in whatever way my boys ONWARD with joy this is my…." and they’ve already covered her over with screams and ten thousand hands of five thousand men each clawing at whatever they want and JUST AS THIS MOVIE ENDS we are awakened by whistles and sirens and booms and barely back out to the street the next film begins yet the building is gone and we’re left high and dry black mud on our boots and no wood for a fire just 30 odd men lost in space and desire and "yesiree Bob" the High Captain says "boys this is for what we’ve been waiting I SAID BOYS! this is for what we’ve been waiting!"