The torn joinery of creation sighs ever so slightly, breached at the stitching, corner work loose and pluming splinters. The weary work of being both effortless and beaten down, stepped on and carried and always squirming fitfully beneath any touch. Spit a little blood, rinse the red from the basin. Watch the window settle on the mingling of gray, green, and blue.
The world creeps past and it gallops, jay and sparrow and the grim repose of a neighborhood stray, wearing hunger in his whiskers. Children staggering home from a week of school, full of bluff and stagger, blustering against the gusting winds. The pavement spattered with a handful of rain, birthing plumes of dust from the never sated earth. Such love and cruelty, and the bulk of all a vast joyous indifference. Beauty falters on in starts and fits, sickness only another note in this hectic composition. A bow laid into the catgut, a plaintive note held for a few lively measures.
I abide my own roiling weakness, my grasps and wails. Slips and shards, indulgence and ruin. The most enduring writing I ever committed was my own epitaph. Then the workaday world, with all its crime and offenses, marches past in gaudy review. The aimless brutality, the wanton greed, the tropes of hurt and hate it holds for all. And all this illness makes sense, the pain and the slow decline. The spiteful masses, the slapped and the spat upon, the sanctimonious and the venal and those that thrive in all this pretense and make-believe. All these stories of heavens and hells made from mistaking all those hammers for nails.