continuity

It should be said that I didn't plan this, although the frame work is always there. Three paragraphs, each devoted to another direction, their separate gods humming along to the same sad song. A few lines of atmosphere, a rhetorical question or two, a few broad conclusions tossed in for good measure. Whatever the resulting flavor, after a few hundred words, it is soup. The recipe changes, but the meal is much the same. Every day, the plan is the same, plan or not.

Mostly I am blue, inclined towards the pitch end of the hue. So it is with sorry eyes that I scan each fresh sky, with a blunt and bruised heart that I carry whatever measure of water I manage. Sometimes I catch some bird in flight, or watch drugs and money exchange hands, or try to dull the fierce self-destructive stories that exude from my flesh like sweat. Other times I evoke some lost or imagined love, my poetic license particularly paid for by seduction and romance. Then some days events unwind without my planning them, and I navel-gaze as my fingers hit the keys. Whatever the cause, whatever my motive, things end up the same on the page.

I am only writing this because I wrote a rule for myself that says I must. I only wrote the rule because without that rule, I would have far fewer reasons to write at all. When we run out of reasons to continue, inventing a few to keep some flames flickering away hardly seems like much of a conceit. Each day I adjust the balance between ghost and blood, between word and whim, between language and the lands above and below. I compound further evidence of my lack and my limits, posting these poems and errors. Every day, these sentences must be served.