I am known
in the religion of rage.
Worship me as a pool
of blood in your hands.
Drink me deep.
It’s bitter fury
that boils and burns.
Your knives were small
but they were many.

I am named
in the religion of rage.
Worship me with your
offhand cuts
long after I am dead.
It’s a song of dreams
crumbled to ashes.
Your wants overflowed
but now gape empty.

I am drowned
in the religion of rage.
Worship me unto
death and down
to a pile of bones.
The purest book
is the one never opened.
No needs left unfulfilled
on the cold, sacred day.

I am found
in the religion of rage.
Worship me in a
stream of curses.
This fool had faith
and in dreams he wept.
But we walk a desert
rocked by accusations,
where no man starves
with hate in his bones.

Unwitnessed — Book I, v. iv Fisher the Sightless

Peasants in an inn playing la main chaude  jan miense molenaer

Let us begin.

No one puts too much thought into the philosophy of the soldier. We who spend our nights in silks under a roof, full bellies, warm fire, we take time to blink. We don’t crowd our head with meaningless thoughts of beginnings, endings, gods and their ilk. You and I, friend, have deeper concerns regarding olives than we do of the military.

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The Jhag believe that injustice began with the first gathering of two people together, that war is the inevitable answer to the argument of community. But what is war to you, friend? Is war the answer, as the doomed Jhagut believed, or is war itself the argument? One would say soldiers argue in cold steel, argue in differences of morality and that strength will declare the winner. But what if I said that the argument is nothing but crows screaming at one another, and society herds soldiers into the maw of a shredder that mists the air pink and reddens the mud while the white horse holds its ground and the black walks away? That gods can mock us with indifference or curse us with their attention? I don’t blame you needing more to drink. The longer I think on it, I wish I could talk with that Jhagut. It’s too bad they’ve been gone for a hundred thousand years.

Karamojong warriors joseph kalinda

Oh where is my manners? You asked me here to tell you a story. Let’s make ourselves comfortable, and as the poet Fisher once said: All the takers of my days, to charge the spear — a hand upon the fates, chains of the world.

All the Takers of My Days