Heights reached make one feel complete
by easing other tasks
strength earned honest changes us
beneath our mental masks
crying for the goals not met
and met by others fair
is nothing but a temper thrown
when work was naught but air
the carrot dangled goes to those
who are the best at catching
lament not carrots caught, instead
grow more by garden patching
For those who dare not sweat a drop,
still avenues exist,
though risk may far outweigh reward,
and thrill will dare persist
take something not belonging thus,
that does afford a trinket,
but think of who creates the things,
and how you've lost their thinking
violence used to seize the day
results in violence more
blood shed beats the sand in droplets
bodies drift on shores
Better is a scheme to thrill
those makers of your goals
to make them hand things unto you
now trusting in your souls
play the part in earnest, yet,
take only what's not missed,
if even moods do strike you,
you could yet steal hug and kiss
while produce browns and treasure rusts,
notoriety insures
reputation buys what gold cannot,
honor and love endure
Still, enemies are made quite fast
on open seas and oceans
sometimes blades must strike and clash
in forcible commotion
the plan must vary time to time,
"fire port, keelhaul, fire starboard!"
dancing crabs in sideways steps,
reflections in the harbor
survival is the paramount,
those living make art real,
while people live and love again,
so artists have something to steal.
* * *
There were fookin' potatoes, far as any eye could see. The dark storage
room was lit by sun from above the ship, peering in through the hatch
above us. Crates of potates lined the entire room, back to front and
side to side, red and spotted and lumpy all over.
"What the hell are all these for?" I asked.
The
Pirate shrugged. "Eating, selling. Pirates can't just get by on raiding
and pillaging, especially not when there's coast guards and barricades.
We'd starve behind enemy lines, in hiding, or get blasted to
smithereens!" She waved with her hands to make one big explosion. "Or
worse, we take the nation's bait so they can lock us up in chains and
make us pick stone. A life of crime doesn't really pay, that's
all legends. In truth, the whole scheme runs uphill for as far as you
go. The best way to thrive is to blend in, become part of the system,
so to speak."
"So you sell potatoes," I posed.
"So we sell
potatoes," she nodded. "And drugs! Treasure, firearms. Never people
though, that's my rule. The crew doesn't like it, but I won this ship in
a game of strip poker, sooo..."
I was nonplussed by her flirtation. "So why'd a pirate captain honor his bet? Wouldn't he just welch?"
The Pirate laughed. "Yeah, he did. But I skewered 'im. Cut 'is nose off
in front of everyone, too. It was fun!" She grinned, and shook her
fists in front of her heart. When she wasn't pretending to be regal, she
was actually very excitable and child-like. I still frowned to hear
about the mutilation, though. "Anyway," she went on, "piracy is all
about bein' in disguise as regular merchants. We steal deals and
agreements, and people just give us things! So maybe not all of it gets
across, so what?" She threw flattened palms up to her ears with a
mischievous grin. "Dull-brained bandits and raiders, sure they make a
flash and bang wherever they go, but half of 'em are slain by angry
husbands for violated wives, many trip and get pitched by villagers,
more are cut out of the take by their own cap'ns... it goes on," she
sighed, flopping over with her arms hanging down to her knees. "All
gangs run the same color," she moaned. Then, she stood straight up again,
like a rag-doll coming back to life. "This way, our only threat is other
pirates. Survival isn't about pitting yourself and a band of angry
brothers against the world, as some brave wave of indignation alive and
bringing justice to the scorched earth! It's about running the right
flag at the right time, letting good martyrs and dumb bastards pike
themselves on evil, so you can climb their bodies over barbed fences.
Our only true allegiance is to the smooth-running balance of all things.
That, and to be quite honest, commerce paves roads, y'know?"
I
squinted. 'Forgetting the towns those roads lead to, aren't we?' I
thought. While I was grateful she'd picked me up from Portugal (after I
used The Doc's seal and address book to send her a letter), I was
exhausted by her cavalier politics. It was like she lived for conflict
at all times, yet condemned it simultaneously.
The Strongman
grunted upstairs, on deck. He was annoyed with us being in private, in
the dark. She smiled, lips still ruby-red, hair in rubber-band ponytail
under what I assumed was the old pirate captain's hat. Over her body was
a long, brown leather coat, with orange fringe and thread, and several
pockets. Concealed barely behind it, a cutlass in belt-loop. Her white shirt was split at the collar, to
perform her cleavage for any and all observers – including me. I
blushed, and remembered again that this woman was my own flesh and
blood. Between the looks and swagger she gave me, I felt she didn't
believe that one bit – or care. Another warm look shot my way, as she
thumb-pointed up the stairs. She climbed them first, seeming to enjoy my
following her and bearing witness to her rear end in tight cotton
pants, hips swaying under constrained waist; she was wearing the same
bodace as back in the forts. I felt my throat tighten and face flush, my
hips tickling, but reasoned she was barely more woman than I, and that
helped me to see through her.
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