The gray rolling sky sheds rivers of mirrors upon the rough commitment of the pavement. Small slate reflections of this world so loved by light. Flecks of ash levitate, boundlessly free of flame and breath. Before me the parsed poetry of weather unencumbered by doubt or faith. The silly trickling of the mind as it tries so vainly to ply its trade. The rain sweeping through the traces of want and will while I settle into the deep periphery, that sad brand of this flavor of truth.
I drink the coffee, already cold in the cup. I read the pages, so elegant and intense. I have cast my lot in with oblivion, and so am feeling that momentary freedom made from the dissolution of all resolve. Slowly I accumulate disorder, unshaven and without the least measure of grace. I inhabit what is left of the machine fully aligned with the accident of birthright, that manifestation of nature and nurture spattered amid the grass and leaf. I feel the years and the misgivings of chemistry claim my name. The ache is all but white noise. The ache is just another pin in the map.
The keyboard follows the touch of my stiff fingers without question or hesitance. It allows all my petty prejudices and wanton whim to vine through the tangle of words I spill. It allows all my delusion and my contempt to run wild, codified in this scrambling rush, woven into these broad particulars and sad manifestations. I flow into amber, I press between each page. Some parasite, some desiccant. Some clinging of the moment, some ringing of the woods. I write words in careless handfuls as the rain fills each day.