Monday, February 7, 2011


Rust devours every tool. The weeds have won the yard. Every season has its prayers and litter, to cover up the landscape and scatter to the wind. I type with such brittle skin, tight as a drum, desolate as a tomb. The air touches my flesh with its cool dry cadaver's kiss, rewarding survival with whatever blight is convenient. The dusk fills with mosquitoes and stars.

It is that first music, this pull and sway of wind, this gather and release of weather. Those skintight rhythms, bodies bound to become the song, singing all breath and blood and the livid air. We gather in small conspiracies and unwound mobs, we turn from crowd to couple to wandering gaze without missing a step. In full stride that music finds us, woven seamlessly into life's vast tapestry.

The air is certain of our disrepair, faces lined and leathered, drinking every tear. We dissolve slowly into the earth and open sky, wind and soil taking their portions. There will always be sacrifice. This price is something money cannot belay. Our vicious whispers, our orphaned eyes, staring into a dense digital oblivion. Bones ache, bandwidth reaching out through every limb. We rust beneath this empty night, breathing each measure in, exhaling our angels into the depths of the sky.

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