An Easter Story

It comes to mind every year around this time
Funny how things work, a stranger
30 minutes over 30 years ago
Of course I don’t even remember his name
I’d just landed my first job in that neighborhood
Was pouring drinks in old town Monterey
Tending to the chain of gypsy souls that flowed in and out there
A wild assortment of fleshly ghosts indeed, a deep end gathering
In walks this man, a lone man
So completely alone, you could feel it
An empty zone, a pillar of alone-ness
with a vacant smile and haunted eyes
He takes a seat at the bar
A slow day, empty room, lazy hour
Juke box tunes and dice cup clatter
watching the sidewalk traffic
No one had cellphones then, no texting, no PC’s
It was a time for real living
You wanted to know, you asked
you went out and found out
You had something to say, you just said it: fretting, feeling, fucking and fighting whatever came down, it was a first-hand affair
It was a time for naked souls exposed to life’s natural elements
As soon as this man sat down and started drinking he poured out his story to me
And how did I know his was for real?…you may be asking
I just did, I’ve always had my way of knowing
The real question would be why he told it, why he poured it onto me
He said something about my face
found something in my eyes
Maybe I just always attract ’em
Maybe he knew we’d never meet again and simply had to unload his burden
Brute with a conscience, hit man’s lament
He’d killed repeatedly, a hired hand
Not exactly the type of line one would use to flatter a girl
I could see that every pore of his soul was on fire
I had never met so lonely a man
He could never have a real friend, not ever in this life
because his life was a pack of lies
and he had to keep moving
Money?  Sure, tons of it, but blood money
Nice houses, plenty of them, one right after the other
He never wanted for that kind of thing
But was in too deep to ever change
And his life, he said, was like one of those chocolate bunnies
Shiny, colorful and full of promise
Looking so good on the exterior
Yet nothing but empty air beyond a very thin layer of sweetness and foil
an empty, hollow space inside
This was right around Easter Sunday, come to think of it
And every time the season passes
I couldn’t see an Easter basket without thinking of him
and wondering if he ever found asylum from his evil deeds
And with every year for me comes a little bit deeper understanding:
Is not each of our lives a little like one of those hollow shiny rabbits?
Dazzling and impressive to the eye
yet ladened down with guilt and fear and empty promises?
Are we all not somewhat artificial?
Living for the things that look good and spend well
but constantly ignoring the cold dark void within our every soul?
Though not all of us have killed by the force of our hand
Haven’t we all been guilty of murder in some form or another?
Killing the light, destroying the spirit that connects us
Forgetting to be grateful
Quick with judgement, envy, betrayal
And always so slow to forgive
As though the empty scorn never existed within our own heart
Collecting the grudges, lining up our scapegoats for the fall
Thoughtlessly censoring the love letter to Jesus
from that sad, remorseful broken-hearted Judas


About Unsungpoet

Life-long poet, numerologist, author of other previously unpublished works :)
This entry was posted in Other Stuff, Photos, Poetry and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to An Easter Story

  1. Beverly Kalinin says:

    I really like this story/poem. I like the way you told it and the “character” in the happening who was so pitiable. I felt so sorry for the sadness you saw and felt in him. As always, I love your perceptions.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s