Armor
The armor rolls on. The armor rolls on and on through the countryside, soft pistons churning away at a metronome heart, turning air to thick butter. Turning exhalation from icy fog to the clot that burdens the back of a throat after running. On and on. All plates of polished ironwood and sun-gilt brass running off to horizon lines in curves. All velvet lining in the cracking eyeholes. All soured shields hanging off split-end ribs and branches. Spitting oil from creaking joints. Spitting purpose from worn gears Falling over itself on a trip to the junkyard. Pears growing in bottles on the trees. Dew slowly forgetting nighttime on the grass, making rasping sounds. Hands opening up on thorns and vines seeping moonshine.
Finger plates rattling together like castanets leaping from a bonfire with guitar tongues at the heels. Fingers held and bound together with loops of rawhide leather, the skin not their own.
Lumbering on. Past a red anthill covered with the carcass of a dead bird. The ants are eating their way out. Desperately, but with disappointment.
Past a rusted astrolabe hanging by a looped piece of rope from a pear tree. The rope has splinters in it and smells like hay. No matter.
Bleeding dim. Bleeding memories like vanilla through soot-covered curtains.
Sopping with rainwater, clinging to heavy leaves and the sound of dirt crumbling over itself. Wood rank with the heat. Rotting, splitting, peeling, sticking to hooves and hands and papyrus scrolls running thin with ink. Worms laying oblong yellow eggs under the fingernails, shelling larvae and slug traps. Wood growing old, worm eaten, full of trails and tunnels like an old woman’s wrists. Sunshine and battery acid.
Natives stepping over, picking finer trunks for arrows and boats and little drums for their children. The smell of ash and vision quests marinating behind white teeth. Picking grubs from beneath skin. No powdered gloves here. No drums here. No drums hear.
And skies pass. Overcast and under cast to cast along a fishing line hanging from the heavens’ hand. Plucked like chamber music scraping the velvet inside the empty head.
Rolling on. Following invisible tracks shaped to the androgynous curves of the landscape. Sacred machine. Pointless engine. Gleaming vehicle.
If the bolt were pulled from the neck, the whole lot would fall. Collapse. Commit to soil. Rust. Rot. Split. Peel.
And the armor comes to a fork in the road. The sign says left and points right, says right and points up. A hot little rock streams down from the sky followed by a dusty tail and lands at its feet. Poor aim.
And there’s a fork in the road.
And the armor rolls forward. And the cargo inside tosses and beats against the walls of ironwood and yearns. And the armor rolls forward.
The room is poorly lit with paper lanterns that hiss when the flame catches on one of the shades. The floor sopping with rainwater. Rotting. Splitting. Peeling. Bare feet leaving phantoms in their shuffle to the kitchen. To the great iron pots with the steaming broth.
In the distance there stand small frond-covered huts, like mushrooms that sprung up after a soft shower. Growing on dead leaves and the carcasses of small animals. Feeding on the juices of regret. Then falling themselves and providing food for dandelions and savages. Inevitability has poise.
And from the vanishing point can be heard jeers and whistles and calls. From the vanishing point can be heard laughter and the noise of noise. The pulse of sound carried on the breeze purely for the sake of sound. The noise of young hands clapping together, of drink-filled fists connecting with cheekbones.
And the armor rolls on and on.
The knife cuts corners and carves curves and whittles away the dirt. Worm eggs. Edges into the iron beneath. The woodworker’s voice coaxing the armor out of unleveled floor planks. Extracting the strength. Luring it out like a rabbit stumbling to a piece of carrot. Bending it with steam. Polishing the iron. Hammering brass into joints.
Lining the plates with velvet and white cloth. Like vanilla curtains before paper lantern soot.
The crusader remarking how fine the fitting is, how the strong the shields. A small, awkward drum resonating in his equally small and awkward son’s hand, his other clinging to his mother’s earth-stained skirts.
Donning the armor, breathing with it, fingers held together by loops of rawhide leather, the skin not his own.
Marching to the battle for the battle under a crimson banner. Marching to the sea to fight a last enemy. Marching to the sea to kill a first friend.
Cornered on a sheer cliff face. Sword broken over the knee. Arrows let loose like wedding doves. The one shaft, breaking the chest. Shattering the iron. Perforating brass. Struck to the breast of the man with an earth-stained wife. And his skin is not his own.
The fall over the sheer face. The plunge into the sea. The taste of salt and blood and wounds to accommodate both. The feeling of being together with a stranger. The feeling of wood sopping. Rotting. Splitting. Peeling.
And now the grass changes to gravel. The sky changes to man’s land. Every particle of air already claimed. Seashells dangling around fine collarbones. Collarbones as thin as funeral veils. Hands working bread on granite slabs with such vigor that the bread could hold the load of all the world’s ills. Eyes leering in sentence fragments.
And the armor rolls to a stop.
And the children rush forward with their drums and dances and small unspoken cruelties. And whispers through bed covers. And whispers into pillows.
And this armor stands still.
A warmth snakes up from the sea floor and touches.
And now the men come with their machetes and swords and misguided guidance. And they cut the rawhide leather loops. Pull the brass nails like rotten teeth. Break the iron’s will. And the armor collapses. And out falls a glass cylinder. And on and on it rolls until it stops at a man’s feet, dressed in dirty gray sandals. Inside the cylinder is water.
In the water swims a fish.
Its fins undulating like a fan waved by a dainty mistress.
Eyes turned up to the finger-stricken glass.
Its orange and yellow scales shimmering, the hide of some mythical beast. The plays of light pulling gasps from the villagers. The beauty of the intricate designs giving birth only to awe and transfixed stares.
That night, fillets are smoked around a bonfire.
Its caress the murmur of desire. The desire, a breath of pure motion.
And the men’s wagons now hold together on foundations of brass screws. And the women have bowls in which to mince their bread. And the children all have little drums.
And their skin is not their own.
Finger plates rattling together like castanets leaping from a bonfire with guitar tongues at the heels. Fingers held and bound together with loops of rawhide leather, the skin not their own.
Lumbering on. Past a red anthill covered with the carcass of a dead bird. The ants are eating their way out. Desperately, but with disappointment.
Past a rusted astrolabe hanging by a looped piece of rope from a pear tree. The rope has splinters in it and smells like hay. No matter.
Bleeding dim. Bleeding memories like vanilla through soot-covered curtains.
Sopping with rainwater, clinging to heavy leaves and the sound of dirt crumbling over itself. Wood rank with the heat. Rotting, splitting, peeling, sticking to hooves and hands and papyrus scrolls running thin with ink. Worms laying oblong yellow eggs under the fingernails, shelling larvae and slug traps. Wood growing old, worm eaten, full of trails and tunnels like an old woman’s wrists. Sunshine and battery acid.
Natives stepping over, picking finer trunks for arrows and boats and little drums for their children. The smell of ash and vision quests marinating behind white teeth. Picking grubs from beneath skin. No powdered gloves here. No drums here. No drums hear.
And skies pass. Overcast and under cast to cast along a fishing line hanging from the heavens’ hand. Plucked like chamber music scraping the velvet inside the empty head.
Rolling on. Following invisible tracks shaped to the androgynous curves of the landscape. Sacred machine. Pointless engine. Gleaming vehicle.
If the bolt were pulled from the neck, the whole lot would fall. Collapse. Commit to soil. Rust. Rot. Split. Peel.
And the armor comes to a fork in the road. The sign says left and points right, says right and points up. A hot little rock streams down from the sky followed by a dusty tail and lands at its feet. Poor aim.
And there’s a fork in the road.
And the armor rolls forward. And the cargo inside tosses and beats against the walls of ironwood and yearns. And the armor rolls forward.
The room is poorly lit with paper lanterns that hiss when the flame catches on one of the shades. The floor sopping with rainwater. Rotting. Splitting. Peeling. Bare feet leaving phantoms in their shuffle to the kitchen. To the great iron pots with the steaming broth.
In the distance there stand small frond-covered huts, like mushrooms that sprung up after a soft shower. Growing on dead leaves and the carcasses of small animals. Feeding on the juices of regret. Then falling themselves and providing food for dandelions and savages. Inevitability has poise.
And from the vanishing point can be heard jeers and whistles and calls. From the vanishing point can be heard laughter and the noise of noise. The pulse of sound carried on the breeze purely for the sake of sound. The noise of young hands clapping together, of drink-filled fists connecting with cheekbones.
And the armor rolls on and on.
The knife cuts corners and carves curves and whittles away the dirt. Worm eggs. Edges into the iron beneath. The woodworker’s voice coaxing the armor out of unleveled floor planks. Extracting the strength. Luring it out like a rabbit stumbling to a piece of carrot. Bending it with steam. Polishing the iron. Hammering brass into joints.
Lining the plates with velvet and white cloth. Like vanilla curtains before paper lantern soot.
The crusader remarking how fine the fitting is, how the strong the shields. A small, awkward drum resonating in his equally small and awkward son’s hand, his other clinging to his mother’s earth-stained skirts.
Donning the armor, breathing with it, fingers held together by loops of rawhide leather, the skin not his own.
Marching to the battle for the battle under a crimson banner. Marching to the sea to fight a last enemy. Marching to the sea to kill a first friend.
Cornered on a sheer cliff face. Sword broken over the knee. Arrows let loose like wedding doves. The one shaft, breaking the chest. Shattering the iron. Perforating brass. Struck to the breast of the man with an earth-stained wife. And his skin is not his own.
The fall over the sheer face. The plunge into the sea. The taste of salt and blood and wounds to accommodate both. The feeling of being together with a stranger. The feeling of wood sopping. Rotting. Splitting. Peeling.
And now the grass changes to gravel. The sky changes to man’s land. Every particle of air already claimed. Seashells dangling around fine collarbones. Collarbones as thin as funeral veils. Hands working bread on granite slabs with such vigor that the bread could hold the load of all the world’s ills. Eyes leering in sentence fragments.
And the armor rolls to a stop.
And the children rush forward with their drums and dances and small unspoken cruelties. And whispers through bed covers. And whispers into pillows.
And this armor stands still.
A warmth snakes up from the sea floor and touches.
And now the men come with their machetes and swords and misguided guidance. And they cut the rawhide leather loops. Pull the brass nails like rotten teeth. Break the iron’s will. And the armor collapses. And out falls a glass cylinder. And on and on it rolls until it stops at a man’s feet, dressed in dirty gray sandals. Inside the cylinder is water.
In the water swims a fish.
Its fins undulating like a fan waved by a dainty mistress.
Eyes turned up to the finger-stricken glass.
Its orange and yellow scales shimmering, the hide of some mythical beast. The plays of light pulling gasps from the villagers. The beauty of the intricate designs giving birth only to awe and transfixed stares.
That night, fillets are smoked around a bonfire.
Its caress the murmur of desire. The desire, a breath of pure motion.
And the men’s wagons now hold together on foundations of brass screws. And the women have bowls in which to mince their bread. And the children all have little drums.
And their skin is not their own.