Ticket To Ride, Book 2, Chapter 34: I’m not trying to get away from myself anymore…

fathers-sons-ivan-turgenev-paperback-cover-art“That’s a wonderful piece honey, it reads like poetry,” She put the magazine on the coffee table.

“Thanks… the poet laureate of Conset Bay,” Morgan said smiling.

“Yeah.”

“Well finish your coffee and we’ll take Dylan down to the water.”

“Shuwa,” said Olivia, feigning a New York accent and smiling like an Armstrong pinup.

Morgan put a copy of the magazine into his filing cabinet and noticed a yellowed note stuck against the inside of the drawer. He went cold.

Olivia moved closer, noticing the change in his disposition.

“What is it honey?”

Morgan handed her the note.

“I think I’ve mentioned Psalm.”

“Yeah he… your old friend from the islands, right?”

She read out loud,

“I’m sorry, I just can’t,

I killed them”

“What is…

“Aristotle told me… Psalm had gone to some sort of ‘love-in’ with his wife and their daughter. There was a lot of stuff going around, you know, it was like 1970, the height of psychedelia. On the way home he crashed his car, killing his wife and daughter.”

“Oh no Morgan… that’s why…”

“Yeah… and he did a lot of acid after that.”

Images of Vietnam and Woodstock flashed into Morgan’s mind. He then saw his Uncle Norman as his father described him, and finally Uncle Jack in his dress blues.

The phone rang. Morgan walked to the coffee table where the phone was sitting next to a copy of SEA. On it’s cover it read “Melville’s Ghost” by Morgan Blake. He picked up the phone and Olivia picked up the other line.

“Hello.”

“Morgan, it’s your father.”

Morgan smiled and breathed.

“Hey dad, it’s been a while.”

“A few years.”

“Almost five.”

“Well your mom prevailed on me…”

“How’s mom.”

“She’s good and we’re good. I’ll understand if you’re still angry with me and…”

“Angry? I’ve been hoping for this. I’m glad you called. I hope you don’t mind but I wanted to…”

“It was my move,” William interrupted, “Your mom saw your article in that magazine and I called the office.”

“You know dad, it’s ok. We’re ‘baptizing’ our boy today.”

“Another Blake,” William said excitedly.

“Yeah, the name goes on.”

“We’re only a few of hours away. Had to get back to the East.”

“Dad…”

“Go ahead Morgan.”

“Thanks for everything you did before I ever knew that you were doing anything for me. I know you did your best.”

“I, Morgan, I…” William’s voice trailed off and Morgan knew he was crying.

“I’m ok with everything dad.”

“Can we get together soon? Your mother would love to see you… and I would too kid.”

“Door’s always open.”

“What’s my grandson’s name?”

“Dylan…”

“After Dylan Thomas.” William finished, “perfect.”

“We’re in Conset Bay dad, had to get away.”

“I know about getting away.”

“I guess you do.”

“I’m not trying to get away from myself anymore.”

“Well good, your grandson’s going to want to have you around, all of you.”

“When will we see you?”

“Next week is Thanksgiving and Livy’s mother will be here. Why don’t you and mom come then? Just call when you get to the island.”

“Fantastic Morgan… we’ll look forward to it”

“Perfect… I love you dad.”

“I love you too Morgan.”

“Tell mom I’ll talk to her then.”

“See ya soon.”

“Yeah, see ya kid.”

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Ticket To Ride, Book 2, Chapter 29: O bla dee, O bla da, life goes on…

Bathsheba by Jeanette Gittens.
Bathsheba by Jeanette Gittens.

“O bla dee, O bla da, life goes on”

– The Beatles

 

Journal Entry, 5am

Trudy, we’ve been in Barbados for nearly a year now. We felt we had to get away from America for a little while.  The Republicans are coming back in and it’s anyone’s guess where the country is headed. Morgan’s been wrestling with something that happened between he and his father some years ago. He’s mentioned a bit of it to me. Father was a vet, Vietnam, and something about an uncle that had done some inappropriate things to him. His father was a real mixed bag when Morgan was growing up, part Ghandi, part Hitler, struggling to make peace with his past while also struggling not to let his past get in the way of raising Morgan. They had a blow out when Morgan was seventeen. Morgan split and went to school, wandered for a bit, got some therapy, then sought me out. He’s been wonderful except for this dad thing. We’ve spent hours talking about it and I think it’s pretty well sorted. I think they just need to talk. His friend Psalm died about the same time, some hippy trippy character. Morgan has a way with letting characters into his life. Takes them in like strays and becomes too attached.

I’ve just finished my most recent piece for the New Yorker. It’s a goodbye to America, at least for now. We just want to be neutral for a while and Barbados feels right. Wish you were here. Somehow I feel that you are and that you always will be. And because of this I believe I can, and need, to give myself fully to the land of the living. I’m signing off now Trudy. I’ll see you when my times comes.

Ticket To Ride, Chapter 11: the South Pacific… brown girls with no tops…

1680kamikazeEleven

“It’s finally fucking over,” William, Morgan’s father, said to the TV.

The news commentator was announcing the end of the war in Vietnam. The shelves over the TV were jammed with books, encyclopedias and almanacs. Hardwood floors ran in all directions around the house, interrupted here and there by a well-placed throw rug. The curtains on the windows were all Julia Blake; small daisies on a periwinkle background, delicate and firm at the same time. She was in the kitchen listening to John Denver. The song was “Readjustment Blues.”

“Excuse me.” said Julia, his wife.

“The war, it’s over.”

The television broke to a commercial wherein a Native American man was walking along a highway in the heartland of America. There was trash strewn all over the side of the road and blowing around as the cars passed quickly. The camera panned to the man’s face and a tear rolled down his cheek. As the commercial ended Morgan walked in.

“What the fuck’ve you been doing? Aristotle’s been calling to find out why you’re not at work,” roared William Blake.

“Well actually just once Will,” said his wife Julia.

“Quiet, Julia. Well Morgan?” Julia retreated a bit, Morgan looked at his mother.

“I just… well I…” Morgan stuttered, feeling like a small helpless child.

“Jesus Christ you fucking pansy, spit it out!”

“Will, please.” Julia interrupted.

“Quiet Julia. Morgan don’t you know what I’ve been through with you and your flaky shit. Your gonna lose this job! I won’t have a little hippie… ”

Something gave way in Morgan.

“You know what dad… fuck you!”

William is stunned, his face pulling tight and toward rage.

Morgan continues, “You brought us here to try and get away from your shit. But your shit’s in you and you can’t hack it. I can’t help that your dad was a fucking bastard and all your guys died in the war. Fuck it all any way, I’m leaving ‘sergeant’ Blake,” Morgan said sarcastically, saluting his father.

William came at him quickly and Julia threw herself in the way. Morgan reached for the door knob as he backed toward the door, opened it and bolted.

“Get the fuck out of my way Julia,” William roared.

“He’s gone Will,” replied Julia.

“He’s gonna end up on the streets,” William finished.

William stopped, looked at his wife and then out the door. He sees himself as a child. He’s with his own parents who were walking him to the front door of his uncle’s house. His father was in a hurry as usual and cursing under his breath.

“Jesus Christ, we’re gonna miss the train, move William, get the lead out.”

He rang the doorbell three times in rapid succession.

“Where the fuck is that fruitcake Norman.”

The door opens.

“Well hello there.” says Norman, looking down at young William.

“We gotta go Norm, we’re late, we’ll call in a couple days, soon as we get to Denver.”

William’s mother bent down to hug and kiss William.

“Mom, I don’t want to stay here.”

“We already talked about…”

“Let’s go Tish, we’re late,” interrupted William’s father.

“You’ll be fine honey, ” said William’s mother.

“Of course he will,” confirms Norman.

The door closes.

“How about some milk and cookies Willy?”

“Yeah, ok,” said William reluctantly.

“And then maybe we can play our little game. You know Uncle Norman loves you.”

Blocked it out

until you were twelve

blocked it out

and were never home

blocks build

build when they’re broken

pulled apart like legos

to build again fresh

kids know this

keep knocking it down ’til they’re tired

keep knocking it down

exasperating their parents

who want to keep it built

and can’t stand the pulling apart of it

keep it built

don’t make legos like they used to

or maybe it’s just that it seems that

there was a plan in the box

instructions

step by step instructions

and pretty pictures to aid in the construction

the constructs

the constructs

Young William looked to the door and felt the distance from his mother growing.

William of today then thought of himself as a little older than in the previous memory and he remembered Jack. Uncle Jack, the strapping young man just come home from the war. They’re standing in the back yard of Grandma’s house in Los Feliz. The family is throwing a homecoming party for Jack. A banner across the back fence reads ‘Welcome Home Our Beloved Jack.”

“Let me tell you Willy those fucken Japs flew right into the engine room. The boys on the deck said they could see the whites of their eyes as they came in. The ship burned for days. We all swallowed a lot of smoke Willy, and a few of the boys didn’t make it. Some burned… but fucking A Willy… the South Pacific… brown girls with no tops… Don’t tell your mom I told you this.”

“I won’t Uncle Jack.”

“I almost forgot,” reaching into his duffle bag, “this is for you kid.”

He pulls out a sword.

“Wow!”

“It’s Japanese kid. Kamikaze pilot left it behind. I pulled it out of the cockpit three decks below.”

“But Uncle Jack.”

“It’s yours kid. And you can tell your mom I said that. Don’t let her tell you otherwise Willy. It’s yours.”

“Thanks Uncle Jack. Hey can you tell me more stuff about the war?”

“I’d love to kid but right now I’ve gotta get inside and get cleaned up and your Uncle Devlin is coming in today too and you know Rachel’s gonna be here. I haven’t seen my best girl in a long time. Get a soda kid, we’ll talk like guys again later… your dad treatin’ you ok?”

“Well…”

“I’ll talk to him kid.”

William never had the chance to talk with Jack again. He heard of his exploits through the filter of his mother who believed Jack was what she called a “womanizer.” Devlin said he was a real ladies man with a gift for the finer points of aeronautics. He was called back East to take part in what later evolved into the space program. It was said that he was a better teacher than his own teachers because he spoke in common terms and the guys understood his analogies and  anecdotes better than the all of the scientific jargon of the day. Later in his life, William’s grandmother told him many times that “Jack was a rascal, he liked to drive fast and he’d always say, ‘I wanna live fast, die young and leave a good-looking corpse.’” Jack came within a month of finishing his degree as an aeronautical engineer and was one out of two guys chosen from the West Coast to be a part of the space program. But the smoke Jack inhaled on the U.S.S. Bunker Hill manifested into lung cancer and killed him in the summer of 1956. William went to Vietnam as an officer ten years later when Morgan was six. A lot of young men died under his command.

“He’s a lot like Jack,” William said to Julia.

Morgan ran as fast as he could to the empty lot behind “Mana Foods.” He jumped into his VW van and slammed the sliding door closed. He turned on the stereo and pushed in Bob Marley and jumped into a makeshift bed made of old beach towels and a lawn chair pad. He stared at the ceiling of the van and began to cry.

In a couple of minutes a tan, skinnyish but well-built young woman appeared from behind the van, opened the passenger side front door, and bounced into the seat.

“I knew you’d be here… I’m sorry about Psalm. He was kind of trippy wasn’t he?”

Morgan just looked at her, then said:

“I’m living in here for awhile.”

“Cool… oh and… I’m sorry, that was sort of insensitive wasn’t it?,” she says, her deep blue eyes at one moment cruel, and in the next, caring.

Morgan still said nothing and Anaya noticed his face was wet.

“You been crying you big baby?”

“What do you want Anaya?”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“You know, you have a knack for coming around at the wrong time.”

“Really,” she says, shifting so that Morgan now has a better view of her bikini clad breasts.

“I fought with my old man, he’s a prick.”

“Dads are pricks… my stepfather tried to nail me once.”

“What’s the deal with these fucking old guys? My dad’s great uncle molested him when he was a kid.”

“That’s sick, totally messed up.”

“No kidding.”

“Hey, I know, you wanna eat some acid and hang out at my place?”

He looked her up and down, thinking maybe if he did they’d have sex.

“But, I’ve never… that stuff’s…”

“C’mon, it’ll be fun… get our minds off this crap.”

“What about your parents?”

“Gone to the mainland for two weeks… it’s just the people who rent the studio, but they’re cool.”

Anaya slipped a small sheet of paper out of the pocket of her cutoff jean shorts.

“Here,” handing him a small piece of paper, “put it under your tongue.”

“How’d you get here.”

“I walked…”

The sun was setting as they arrived at Anaya’s house and for Morgan the world had begun to turn upside down. Inside the door they were confronted by a naked couple in poor shape. Morgan sees their bodies begin to expand and contract against the backdrop of an interior decorated by Jack Murphy.

“Hey,” said the woman, who, to Morgan, at once looked like Janus Joplin and, in the next moment, like the witch from the Wizard of Oz.

“Uh, hey,” said Morgan trying to get past her.

“Look at your eyes… are you guys tripping?” asked the man who looked like a post prime Bob Dylan with bad skin.

“Wow, I can almost see the colors you’re seeing,” she said as all the colors of the rainbow began to spark from the corners of Morgan’s eyes.

Morgan moved faster to get to the door but the woman seemed bent on catching him until she heard the sound of a baby crying. Morgan looked back at the same moment she did and saw an infant hanging in a hammock. The baby cried again and for a moment Morgan saw a cocoon hanging there with a cut-away view of a caterpillar. He turned and followed Anaya through the door. They were in her part of the house now and Morgan felt a bit safer. He looked at Anaya and felt aroused but in the next moment her body expanded and contracted and he was terrified by what he was seeing.

“Anaya?,” he said feeling his world going away.

“Hey, you know what, I’m gonna go upstairs and trip alone,” she said smiling, and rushed out of the room and up the stairs.

“But…” As he spoke the door to the upstairs closed. He was alone.

He walked out on the patio. It was getting dark now and he had nowhere to go. The giant leaves of the foliage in front of him seemed to be trying to reach out at him. He stepped back and inside and felt like he needed to relieve himself. There was a small cramped bathroom tucked under the stairs. He pulled down his pants and sat on the toilet. He could feel his whole body moving in some kind of contraction, like the shit was rolling like a wave from his chest down to his ass. The bathroom was dimly lit by a bare, low watt bulb. All around the toilet were spiders of different colors and sizes and Morgan wanted to get up but he was afraid of shotting on the floor. He looked to his left and saw himself in the mirror. His head split in two pieces then snapped back together and then he saw his whole body being lowered into a meat grinder and his own hand was turning the crank. After an hour of this at Anaya’s house Morgan finally tried to find his way home. He was so messed up it took most of the night to get there.

His abandonment by Anaya changed him. That night he became cold to women. At once a romantic and now a cynic. His mother seemed to be the only adult in his life who hadn’t outright let him down.

Ticket To Ride, Chapter 3: It’s the beginning of something…

Art by Eddie Flotte: www.eddieflotte.com
Art by Eddie Flotte: http://www.eddieflotte.com

Three 

When the mists had begun to form over the western valley, Psalm was waking from his cellar-bed, behind the health food store. Surrounded and framed by the white walls of the room, his face was torn with sleep. He lay unmoving for a while, contemplating the ceiling and making angels out of the abstract shapes of the waterstained paint, before rising. His receding hairline and several days of unheeded facial hair were made apparent by faint strains of light stealing through a single window in the far wall, next to the door. His loose skin showed signs of overexposure and gave him the look of a man much older than he was. He rose quietly and reached for the Bible which could always be found on his improvised night-table, a wooden produce crate covered with green and black paisley cloth. He read a few inspiring phrases from bookmarked pages, as was his ritual, and then proceeded to clothe himself in his white canvas, long-sleeved shirt and pants, which were as worn and tired as their wearer.

He came to the island with a wave of “spiritualists,” disguising himself as a free-loving, free spirit and leaving behind an ill-fated marriage and a child whom he had loved dearly. He didn’t offer details about his family but it was his claim that he had written, but never published, an extensive discourse on metaphysics. It was his “life’s work.” He had said it was enough “just having written it,” and he didn’t give a thought to publishing.

A quiet sort of man, he kept to himself for the most part, much like the runt of the litter or the last born child. He slipped his manuscript out from underneath the bible, furrowed his brow then mumbled to himself in a tired voice, “Can’t believe I ever wrote this vile nonsense.” He threw the manuscript into the trash.

Morgan would soon be arriving at the store and at that time they would ride together, Morgan at the wheel, to the small local airport in order to pick up the weekly shipment of produce from the mainland.

As the sun peeked over the old buildings, deflected by the foliage of a few papaya trees and setting his green eyes alight, he smoothed his dirty, light-brown hair into a pony-tail, then walked slowly through the alleyway between the health food store and the post office. An image of his wife and child passed through his mind and he became tense and grimaced. He then turned left before reaching the street, dampened by a late night squall, just in time to meet Aristotle, his boss and owner of the store, who was busy unlocking the front entrance. The memory of his wife and child was painful. “Turn away,” he whispered to himself. He sucked in a quick breath and walked up behind Aristotle.

“Good morning,” said Psalm in an amiable and priest-like tone, covering his pain.

“Good morning,” returned Aristotle without giving away his disposition.

Even at mid-morning, the street, which wound its way high into the “upcountry” was peaceful and sedate and the town was possessed with the air of a typical Sunday, although it was Friday.

The town was made up primarily of two rows of shops to either side of the main street, built in the polynesian-colonial style and perpindicular to the turquoise, omnipresent sea. Omnipresent because the smell of it was always in the air, except on the rare occasion that the wind would blow from the south, bringing the smell of the cane mill. You’re never far from the sight of it.

The shops consist of two makeshift cafes, an ice-cream parlor which played host to the very occasional, ambivalent tourists who stopped there on their way to the eastern end of the island, a Japanese market, run by the Nagata family, a questionable television repair shop, and a barber shop pretending to be a salon.

It would be only a short while, because none could be accused of being an early riser, before the other merchants would arrive from their nearby homes for a day of slow but steady business. Always in favor of getting a head start, an honorable but unnecessary notion, the diligent Greek with his Christian sidekick entered the store under the sign which reads “Mana Foods;” Aristotle to prepare for the day’s business and Psalm to eat his breakfast of guava juice and rice cakes. Psalm, who had rid himself of his given name for the one offered by his former wife, moved quietly behind the cash register to enjoy his pauper’s feast and the silent company of his indifferent boss.

Upon entering the store Psalm had been welcomed by the familiar aroma of organic spices and vitamins mixed with the sweet smell of rotting vegetables. But after eating half of his breakfast and making a few sincere attempts at conversation, received by the Greek with patronizing grace and answered with kind but hollow platitudes, he retired sleepily to the hardwood bench at the front of the store, to continue his meal alone. Outside he took in the heavy morning air in large sleepy draughts, breathing in the sweet smell of burning cane coming from the nearby mill mixed with the salty brine from the bay, and awaited the arrival of his young partner who would, as usual, be a little late.

In his mind, this warm, moist morning was like the dawning of the first day. From where he was seated he was able to survey the great volcano to the east and follow its sloping sides down to the cane fields across to the mountains in the west. On most mornings Psalm’s mind would entertain the thought that “God’s light” was filling the countless ridges and depressions with scriptural illumination “beckoning” the people of the island to “come forth” and “rejoice” in the “blessing” of the new day. But beside all this he was a shadow on the bench, an at first smiling, then sneering, contradiction… his mind was screaming: “Christian/puritan/Christian/puritan/existential/christian/atheist/stop.”

“There,” he said to no one.

Psalm was given to drowsiness and would often close his eyes “just for a moment” with the intention of simply “taking the edge off.” Taking the edge off could take anywhere between fifteen minutes and two hours and during this time his soul/subconscious might take flight in a half-waking reverie or “vision,” other times he might sink deep into the depths of repressed thought. Never quite asleep, he was semi-consciously aware of his ability to exert some control over the course his dreams might take. Sometimes he was a bearded Moses parting the Red Sea to liberate his people. In a dream sequence such as this, a warm, divine smile would overtake his countenance and the casual passerby might be tempted to wake him in order to gain knowledge of the reason for his cheshire-like grin. If awakened, Psalm would often take this opportunity to attempt to convert this innocent victim.

In other sequences he might play the part of the traitor Judas, during which time his face would become pale and pointed, and it seemed as if at any moment he might breathe fire from his flared and quivering nostrils. In this case, the passerby would sidestep into the street and Psalm would awaken, edge in tact. In either case, he would give himself in to his assumed role but, when Judas, he would never go so far as to hang himself.

That particular morning he was Adam in the garden, before the fall, since the sweetness of the guava juice had induced thoughts of the many fruits one might find there. His Eve was his former wife and he was moving forward to engage her in a kiss when…

“Good morning Psalm,” said Morgan warmly, conscious of Psalm’s odor but graceful about trying to ignore it.

“Hmm… good…huh?,” Psalm struggled, “oh, good morning…you’re uh,” looking at his watch… “a little later than usual, aren’t you?”

“Good dream you were having, I could tell by your face.”

“Uh, yeah Morgan it was,” he returned, feeling the warmth of his dream leaving his

body, “we should be going.”

“Let me get some juice and the keys and I’ll be right back. By the way, is Aristotle

around?  The truck needs some gas.”

“He should be,”  said Psalm, finally seeing Morgan clearly.

Morgan entered the store thinking what a strange but amiable character Psalm was. This was true of many of the inhabitants on this “island of misfits.”  It seemed to him that the island had the power to bring out the hidden individual in those who chose to live there.

They’d known each other now for a couple of years and had quickly become friends and Morgan, because of the shortcomings of his father, projected upon Psalm his need for a father figure. Psalm looked forward to their Fridays together. They usually spent this time talking of commonplace topics like weather or work.  Psalm enjoyed the simplicity of this sort of conversation because it served to narrow, and focus, his scope of thought, if only for a short while.  He admired, or better, envied his young friend. He was intelligent and easy-going and, most importantly, he was a good listener; all qualities that Psalm didn’t feel he himself possessed.

Morgan Blake seemed mature for his age. He was a self-assured young man who possessed, or was possessed, by a natural confidence and charisma which endeared him to all with whom he came into contact. He had attended a non-denominational private school and had, at an early age, become familiar with the classics of literature and philosophy. He combined this knowledge with a child-like curiosity which made him untiringly open to new ideas. His father William had never allowed his education to end with the school bell. In his modest library and out-of-doors he made sure that Morgan was well-versed in the inner-workings of nature and the importance of a close observance and respect for the natural world. Sometimes they’d get down on their haunches in the garden and get a good look at what was growing. And with guru-like sagacity, his father expounded the virtues of an ear-to-the-ground, open-hearted and keenly observant approach to life and nature.

“Come here Morgan,” William said to his then seven-year-old son.

“What is it dad?”

“It’s the beginning of something.”

Morgan looked down and saw the sprouts of what would be a tomato plant.

“It just looks like a weed dad.”

“Always remember what Emerson said… A weed is just a plant whose virtues have yet to be discovered.”

Remembering this ten years later, Morgan would wonder how his father had become a sergeant in Vietnam. Coming from a family of military men, his father was almost required to follow suit, but though he volunteered, William was never able to give himself wholly to it.

Before the war William had enjoyed teaching Morgan all that what he could because, in Morgan, he felt he might instill the ideals of an old transcendentalist Englishman, for whom he had been named and whom he felt was his not-so-distant spiritual relative. But now, unable to control his drinking and his tendency toward being a dictator and a womanizer, he’d become less than a perfect model for Morgan. The war brought with it experiences he couldn’t resolve.

One Tin Soldier (The Legend of Billy Jack)

publisher_photo3One Tin Soldier (The Legend of Billy Jack)
by Dennis Lambert & Brian Potter, performed by The Original Caste (1970)
This song was performed by Jinx Dawson and Coven in the movie “Billy Jack” (1971)

Listen, children, to a story
That was written long ago,
‘Bout a kingdom on a mountain
And the valley-folk below.

On the mountain was a treasure
Buried deep beneath the stone,
And the valley-people swore
They’d have it for their very own.

Go ahead and hate your neighbor,
Go ahead and cheat a friend.
Do it in the name of Heaven,
You can justify it in the end.
There won’t be any trumpets blowing
Come the judgement day,
On the bloody morning after….
One tin soldier rides away.

So the people of the valley
Sent a message up the hill,
Asking for the buried treasure,
Tons of gold for which they’d kill.

Came an answer from the kingdom,
“With our brothers we will share
All the secrets of our mountain,
All the riches buried there.”

Go ahead and hate your neighbor,
Go ahead and cheat a friend.
Do it in the name of Heaven,
You can justify it in the end.
There won’t be any trumpets blowing
Come the judgement day,
On the bloody morning after….
One tin soldier rides away.

Now the valley cried with anger,
“Mount your horses! Draw your sword!”
And they killed the mountain-people,
So they won their just reward.

Now they stood beside the treasure,
On the mountain, dark and red.
Turned the stone and looked beneath it…
“Peace on Earth” was all it said.

Go ahead and hate your neighbor,
Go ahead and cheat a friend.
Do it in the name of Heaven,
You can justify it in the end.
There won’t be any trumpets blowing
Come the judgement day,
On the bloody morning after….
One tin soldier rides away.

www.reverbnation.com/thejulianday