To the official, Anaxagoras:
If the man I have ordered to follow you is armed,
Anaxagoras,
If I commanded him to put a bullet through your brain
Should you derelict your duty,
Do not be insulted, do not take offence. Know
That it is a mark
Of the gravity of your charge,
That you will have in your hands lives,
That you will be expected to deal deaths.
You must protect my interests,
Anaxagoras,
Work towards the failure
Of these colleagues who came to this place along with me
Who also left behind delegated factotums like yourself
(Be polite to these men; respect them as your equals;
Effect their elimination if at all you can).
You must watch the stars,
Anaxagoras,
Maintain the accuracy of the charts I have left you,
Draw our nation’s horoscope
In the blood you will shed with your hands
While my hands are absent.
I am drawing the horoscope of the planet;
I follow the path of the comet,
And I shall be there to see where it shall rest
Or vanish, forever.
Already I have seen,
Anaxagoras,
A senator from that great imperial power stand before the cameras
Issuing stern denials that the phenomenon shall amount to anything.
I have seen a crew of pirates drop anchor,
Lay down their AKs, remove their bandanas,
Wipe sweat from shining foreheads, hands on oiled bloody singlets.
I saw a Coalition sergeant stop and sit on a pockmarked wall
Beside a boy he might have shot as an insurgent;
Both noted the object, wondered what force launched that attack.
I spoke with a nomadic herdsman of the region,
A filthy illiterate who through the translator
Babbled about contact with beings from another world.
The others,
Anaxagoras,
Expect the child to be resident
In the presidential palace
And while I see no harm in consulting the Coalition’s petty, puppet dictator
(What can he do? Really, what can he do?)
I wonder, privately, if the child will not be poor
Since there are so many more of them to be picked.
I dreamed last night of a hovel-dwelling teenager
In filthy blue donated sweats, her
Round dark accusing eyes watching me, taking it in as
I knelt in my charcoal grey suit, in my silk tie
That alone cost more than the seamed leathery husband will ever earn,
Knelt before the child whose face in my dream I could not see,
And to whom I offered what I will offer soon:
A Krugerrand,
A box of incense,
A jar of aromatic ointment used for embalming the dead.
December 15th, 2009 at 9:12 pm
This is really good. Confusing. But good.
December 15th, 2009 at 10:18 pm
I’m pretty into this, gotta say. Good work
December 16th, 2009 at 6:55 pm
This is so good. I’m loving this directed first-person, nearly second-person thing here. Unsettling and vivid, with great word choices. A great piece, Wood.
December 17th, 2009 at 3:50 am
LOVE it. Took me a while to get ’round to it, then I had to re-read it twice. LOVE it.
Why “Anaxagoras”? Just to mix up the time line some more with another “wise” man?
December 17th, 2009 at 7:08 am
Upon a third through fifth reading, I realize a bit more, but the parts I’m unclear on have become more unclear, specifically those of the first two stanzas. Is there some more historical context I need to bone up on?
December 17th, 2009 at 1:01 pm
The Magi of Persia were a caste of mystics and politicians, wheeler dealers with a strict rule about killing (if it was a sacrifice, they had to shed the blood with their own hands). They were king makers and king-killers. They were not sweet bearded men with turbans and starry gold lame robes.
Imagine, if you will, a ruthless scumbag politician (albeit one who does horoscopes). Now imagine him bowing to a child born in poverty.
December 17th, 2009 at 1:01 pm
Oh, and Anaxagoras is a pretty average sort of name for a palace official from that sort of place and that sort of era.
December 17th, 2009 at 4:03 pm
Man I’m inspired in all kinds of ways/directions. I want to do something huge that’s all this ramp up and narrative before the birth, and the climax is…a baby’s born? (…and then nothing happens for 30 years? love it.)
December 17th, 2009 at 4:14 pm
By huge I mean like either a novel or a rock opera, Jesus Christ Superstar for the birth story instead of the death story–Jesus wouldn’t even be a character–it would fade to black just as the dolly shot caught up to the main characters as they approached the barn–except I don’t pretend to have the talent of Webber’s left earlobe.