There is a path crafted of salt and resin. The scent of every prayer tainted with pine tar, each emulsion vaguely crystalized. The itch of division mounted brutally upon you, the scratching of this passing rain some kind of call to arms. Identity becomes chemistry left out long enough. You are what you breech, the siege engine, the trumpet solo. Love and war, and art aping everything in sight.
I clear my throat, I stay on the porch. The rain falls in spits and spatters, making drum line patter from the roofs and streets. Gutters clotted with water, cluttered with deadened leafs, the dead end notions and balcony glamours all pass. I am the steam, I am the fog. The water as it flows, the ice just freezing. Give me a kiss for luck and go. Every good gift ought to have a shelf life. The radiance of life is only the most vested recipe. Live well and life grows sharp and slow. Live like I do, everything blurs and blends.
In the end this is molecular, atomic bonds pushing and pulling becoming fluids and solids, the seething and the massive passing to the left. The poetry of this particular poverty, the paring down, the parsing of linear liberty. Evaporation and consummation, fire and fuel, every one sings. Oh music, oh stutter--. The fingers slip and the words are altered, like that story of Beckett taking notes for Joyce. "Leave it in," he says of the mistaken interruption. Even art is bound to laws that are more than our native suggestions. Even this story is owned by the reasoned readers and the absence of wealth. I follow the smoke, I follow the water. In the absence of hope, I hope the rain will do.