She said something of dark symphony over the coms. I’ve held my breath so long. It’s not right yet I thought. Muse said the wind’s about to change. It’s not right yet, but exhale slowly and it will be. Hold it right and let it out. Slowly squeeze, don’t bend it. “Symphony” was her green light. Muse just did the math and she told me to send it.
Proper Windage
The Assassin’s Apology
I know I can up and disappear
and I’m sorry for that
but I’m extremely well-versed
in the art, I never told you.
I can make a world forget
about me, and do,
never to catch wind of me now,
or ever. It’s forgotten how.
Already amid the noise,
in the din and under it I go
through its smoke
and the misshapen sound it makes
boasting of its own heroing,
little me underground, fading,
head down and zeroing,
stalking, pretending to be dead,
aiming to end a thing that has no heart
and already has a bullet in the head.
I lead one life
to live another.
I am a ghost, you see
or don’t,
and my most important missions
are performed in the peace,
in the still
where we are most fluent
in tactical teams of ones and twos,
me and my spotter,
my trusty scout, my beloved Muse.
“One pen. One story. Hoo-Haa!”
we always say
when we’re so deep in the black
that even we don’t know
how the hell we’ll make it back.
But we do. We always do.
So I’m sorry my friend,
but that’s where I’ve been,
in the dirt, in the trees,
in the wind, in the weeds,
in the sky…
in the dirty business
we need not discuss.
It’s the work I do
and it means that much,
but you are right there
with me all the way
which is probably why
I never called the other day.
You wouldn’t want to know anyway,
the horrors…
The things we’ve seen,
the blood, the tears, the mangled wrecks,
the torments of indescribable futility,
or worse,
the futility of indescribability…
So leave the dark arts
and such dirty work to me
and don’t ask, but instead
enjoy the little gift
I just slipped in your sleeve
of plausible deniability.
I’m sorry.
That’s a ghost
with a gift for you
going as far as he can go
in saying he’s sorry
for being a ghost
who must now evaporate
with a wind
demanding all of me,
a hunter who will now
go back to work,
to fade and to operate,
to read, breathe, meditate,
to hunt without apology
for staying hydrated.
So trust me, friend, when I say
I’m deep in the black
silently stalking a living
making a quiet killing.
I’m back in this,
in the thick and thin
and in the throes of it
lost and found in thought,
and like it or not,
you’ll be among the first
to hear from me, friend,
once I’ve taken the shot.
Hoo-Haa!