The Hunt

I was born a babe
Set aside in the wilderness-

First I was afraid to walk,
And then I heard the drums-

Then I was afraid to die,
And so I learned to run.

I was a white fawn,
Wandering in my likeness-

Then I saw the Hunters,
They shot at me with bow and spear-

And still I ran farther,
Bleeding in the snow.

I became a hawk to fly,
And flew above their terror-

Then they reasoned, and fashioned fire,
And shot at me with bullets.

Knowing they would kill me
I soared-

Higher than the lowest pits,
Over all the Ages wide.

But the sky nurtures no one

So I fell again to the Earth,
Tired from the sun and flames.

I too aware to sleep
All too alive to dream-

I looked about me from the ground,
I saw the trees glimmer with old rains,
I heard the wind scatter the bright waters,
I saw the sacred
in the unseen-

And no more was the Hunt.

Silent were the drums.

And ceasing fear, and wonder-
Thinking “this is a beautiful place to die.”

And then finally
I could live,

And all the worlds
were mine.

Now knowing-

Nothing is.


About Epoch Awareness. Writer, J.D. Hughes

I write. Do you read? I write. I write words: Carefully and consistently, and chaotically, from the deep pulsar unison of the still mind (or the violent undoing of the still mind); Sometimes I resemble Robert Zimmerman (my hair uncut, my mind uncut, all unregulated thoughts, wind haphazard along a pale american brow too). Sometimes, Sometimes words are fragments of paragraphs and you find them eschew in and from time, and with care, in the long ribbon fabric or one single unsealed cosmic spiral, and then they burn wild like black-holes ( birthing voids built the milky way); Still there are words so heavy and pure that they anchor fast the mind to the mere memory of their syllables in the quiet echoes, in and around, the deep violet sea of the questioning readers inner-mind. I write sentences: In strands, like silk, or links in chains, or diamond arranged compressed carbon coal electrons, or the frequency of more intimately woven atoms; In intricate quilts of reason, and warmly glowing sheets of cotton fiction that cover you at 4 am on a Sunday (with the sun bright and a bastard, soon to be hitting your face from the slats in the window shades); I write paragraphs, and as such I consider it a duty of the considerate and conflicted human to consider their conflicts human, and consider: In airports, in churches, in penthouses in Hollywood (who overlook the homeless mountains and the slanting fogs of debilitated industries, and the vacuum seduction, and lifeless Angel City in the Wests bleached blonde sand, and lids of imagery cover sad vacant eyes), in station wagons, in deep wood temples in Maine, near the Androscoginn River, where the Native Americans caught silver fish and eternity lived off communal tides to the distant ocean, which is now more black than the sky from our waste, now wrought with the studied three-headed-demon-fish, (but still a holy place Maine, it glows); In any meaningful medium, known or noun, imaginable is mans only true duty. It is mans only Deity (For what was with God, what was God? The Word was, In The Beginning). To chase the promise that reality and truth are not yet only relative devices, and leaving these scriptures: On brains, and on paper, and on papyrus, and old plaster, and on the backs of old Polaroids (once someone did at least), the thin skin on wet hands who ru
This entry was posted in Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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 )

Twitter picture

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

Facebook photo

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

Google+ photo

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

Connecting to %s