lift him to me and whisper, Caesar, Caesar , and I stroke his neck and turn to leave but the police pushes his stick in my belly, just as they stuck their stick in my brother’s arm, sending him to his final home rest, and I double over mad as a wet hen, and when that cop says, “Where you think you’re going, boy,” I reach one hand into my penche pants pocket to be cooled by the steel of my switchblade and pray for the courage of my brother and Caesar, to strike as mi hermano and mi hermanito both did: to stab and stick, to kill and die.
A Saint and His Dragon: George v. Dragon
Outside of Silene, Libya,
299 AD
George, 23,
Soldier, Christian, & Future Saint
N ine days I’ve ridden without so much as a handful of palm dates or a palmful of almonds or a bellyful of goat’s milk, when I come over the tumescent hills, swollen and rolling out to sea, to be made witness to this ancient tableau: a young girl in billowing silk skirts fastened by her wrists to the twisted branches of a thick olive tree; behind her a dragon, dry brown scales dull in this dim light, smoke in curlicues rising from its snout and open mouth. My manroot rises and strains against this armor—God has summoned me to this mission, I have no doubt, to save this lady’s flesh from the foul unholy beast and to spread His holy word to the people of this land, stunned ignorant by the pagan laws of Rome, and I know this urge in my loins is yet another challenge the Lord’s laid before me, another desire to drive mortal man mad—how easy a task must that be?—as a child in Palestine I’d grind myself into turtle shells or frog mouths or doughy mounds of barley and exhaust myself there until Father, disgusted and distraught, sold me to the Roman army and I became a soldier designed for slaughter until the One True God showed me the light and grace of Jesus and His body in my mouth and His blood on my tongue—still these temptations swell and rise and burst about me and even so I advance, the wind and blood roaring in my ears like Satan’s locusts come to deafen me, yet I advance all the more swiftly, charge straight into its eyes, black and cold and empty—its forked tongue flickers venomous and its wings spread wide and it spits flames that char my shield, which does not betray me, and still I come forward and slam my lance,which shatters against this creep’s deep breast, and I’m thrown from my mount.
Once as a new soldier in Diocletian’s cavalry, I became so frail that I fell from my mount and landed in a pile of barley hay and the smell overcame me—the fields of my youth, where I copulated with earthen bowls of grain and the still-warm side of a sacrificed lamb—here again I find myself aroused and the ache of my manhood plows facedown in the earth, the wind blows under my steel skin, and I rush at the dragon, which rears on its hind legs, and I drive my sword hilt-deep into its lovely groin and I release again and flee: Oh Lord, look upon me not with scorn but with pity and call my name once more to ring among the hallowed halls of Heaven .
The Dragon, the Age of Man
B y day I hide within the caves of Tripoli and I sleep in their shadows and folds, by night I fly through the sky or crawl over the land or swim far upon the water, and I am your greatest fears, human—you cannot reason with me or come to terms with me or soothe or coerce or mitigate me, not with all the rubies in the Turk’s great vault nor all the flesh of your doughy young virgins nor your roaming goats nor your shaky faith—to appease me you slaughter your own, kill one another to advance your claim over land and sea, or you bring me a wee child and chain her to the rocky outcrops and beg me take her, only her—and I will eat, human, because I must—I am the guardian of the sacred fire so the flames from my mouth are sacrificial, the same as the heat from your own bodies, which burn the sacrifice you take through your mouths—all things that live
A Saint and His Dragon: George v. Dragon
Outside of Silene, Libya,
299 AD
George, 23,
Soldier, Christian, & Future Saint
N ine days I’ve ridden without so much as a handful of palm dates or a palmful of almonds or a bellyful of goat’s milk, when I come over the tumescent hills, swollen and rolling out to sea, to be made witness to this ancient tableau: a young girl in billowing silk skirts fastened by her wrists to the twisted branches of a thick olive tree; behind her a dragon, dry brown scales dull in this dim light, smoke in curlicues rising from its snout and open mouth. My manroot rises and strains against this armor—God has summoned me to this mission, I have no doubt, to save this lady’s flesh from the foul unholy beast and to spread His holy word to the people of this land, stunned ignorant by the pagan laws of Rome, and I know this urge in my loins is yet another challenge the Lord’s laid before me, another desire to drive mortal man mad—how easy a task must that be?—as a child in Palestine I’d grind myself into turtle shells or frog mouths or doughy mounds of barley and exhaust myself there until Father, disgusted and distraught, sold me to the Roman army and I became a soldier designed for slaughter until the One True God showed me the light and grace of Jesus and His body in my mouth and His blood on my tongue—still these temptations swell and rise and burst about me and even so I advance, the wind and blood roaring in my ears like Satan’s locusts come to deafen me, yet I advance all the more swiftly, charge straight into its eyes, black and cold and empty—its forked tongue flickers venomous and its wings spread wide and it spits flames that char my shield, which does not betray me, and still I come forward and slam my lance,which shatters against this creep’s deep breast, and I’m thrown from my mount.
Once as a new soldier in Diocletian’s cavalry, I became so frail that I fell from my mount and landed in a pile of barley hay and the smell overcame me—the fields of my youth, where I copulated with earthen bowls of grain and the still-warm side of a sacrificed lamb—here again I find myself aroused and the ache of my manhood plows facedown in the earth, the wind blows under my steel skin, and I rush at the dragon, which rears on its hind legs, and I drive my sword hilt-deep into its lovely groin and I release again and flee: Oh Lord, look upon me not with scorn but with pity and call my name once more to ring among the hallowed halls of Heaven .
The Dragon, the Age of Man
B y day I hide within the caves of Tripoli and I sleep in their shadows and folds, by night I fly through the sky or crawl over the land or swim far upon the water, and I am your greatest fears, human—you cannot reason with me or come to terms with me or soothe or coerce or mitigate me, not with all the rubies in the Turk’s great vault nor all the flesh of your doughy young virgins nor your roaming goats nor your shaky faith—to appease me you slaughter your own, kill one another to advance your claim over land and sea, or you bring me a wee child and chain her to the rocky outcrops and beg me take her, only her—and I will eat, human, because I must—I am the guardian of the sacred fire so the flames from my mouth are sacrificial, the same as the heat from your own bodies, which burn the sacrifice you take through your mouths—all things that live
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