Part I: Sitting in the mud

Bakuⁱ

baku
singularly gorgeous
gorge on this

buffet
tahini memories
crunchy chicory ruminations

stout
baku grazing
heady lush pastures

forget
thin regret
aches pain pates

baku
chews old
russet cud visions

eat
lotus berries
smooth into forgetfulness

yet
even with
saturated hollow stare

doeth
weep my
buried third eye

yester-tomorrows
i want
them back here

forcing
well water
from mine eyes

capture
the baku
with enchanting dreams

i
lead him
to the vomitorium

please
forgive me
noble etheric chimera

daymares
nightdreams all
that i have

iBaku (獏 or 貘, Baku^?) are Japanese supernatural beings that devour dreams and nightmares.

And there came a time when the baku died on his doorstep and Jhlen Seeradiant knew that he had to pick up the gun, the throwing knife and the sword again, forgo his sabbatical at the edge of the world and perform deeds of renown under the audience of the stars.


The sky smelled of shallots and spilled beer. Fall's end flooded the air with the cloudmakers of taverns. Robust clouds sticky upon the sky. Jhlen sat outside of the back of a tavern with puddles of grey water collecting near his feet wondering how he ended up in this tiny town on the coast near the great sea, at the edge of the world.

S'rn, one of the furthest known towns to the east. There were the legendary 5 cities beyond the great sea at the edge of the flat earth, yet they were rumors, fables told to children, abstract mental models of philosophers. S'rn was used to measure the eastern end of any reliable map. S'rn where old women read the future through the entrails of sea gulls and the skeletons of dragons are enshrined in temples. S'rn where Jhlen carved broken poetry in the mud with a stub of a twig.

He wanted a epic ending to this couplet. One that not just summarized the poem. One that transformed the poem into something totally different. So Jhlen scribbled, scratch, prodded, and poked the mud seeing if he could draw the final lines up from the wet earth. Nothing transpired except brown spittle on his boots and bulging veins in his temples. He shifted his back so that splinters from the tavern wall didn't prick his back though upon reconsideration he realized that simple wood couldn't penetrate his skin.

Jhlen was the last of the poet warriors who fought at the battle of Narib. Jhlen Seeradiant of the seven wounds whose name was known at each point of the world's compass. Narib was the the battle where the grass drank blood and vultures still visit the fields to gorge on the flesh of ghosts. Brother fought against brother, son slew father, and the women of Narib performed jauhar rather than face the ashen faces of the conquering army.

It was nearing close and the tavern patrons started to filter out. Most of them ignored Jhlen for they knew not who he really was. His dark indigo skin practically blended in with the night anyway. He enjoyed being able to smother himself in his thoughts. And the end to the poem still did not come. The twig broke.

It was getting later by the moment anyway. He figured that he would walk through the twists of the southern street alleys to meditate more on his way to his home. The alleys were now lined with peach trees and tufts of fragrant grass with windows full of shadow puppets from the carnies staying in S'rn during the winter months. The pagentries of the puppets told secret stories that many wanted to forget; bastard sons of messiahs, saints committing murder, incestuous infidelity. Walking the alleys was walking the story. The moon was a comforting mistress along the way.

Yet little did Jhlen know that he would find a baku on his doorstep when he got home.