Sunday, July 8, 2012


These days I even dream of you, dressed all up in secrets and your mystery grin. Buried in that gimmick of distance, caught along that vapor trail. Here the mosquitos fight to find some purchase on this drift of blood and shadows. Here the flies rise as the sun settles. I am all reach in the empty of another afternoon, entangled in the piece work patterns of each imagined abandon. I only find the time when the words are lost.

Again I lean on old devices, either too near or too far. Again I lead the complaint of ache and want. The map burned away while the cowboys on tv ride. Snapping fingers and tapping toes, beat loosed eight to the bar. The carnival rust and sideshow hokum. I always say I play to my strengths, however weak they may be. I always say the last thing again, in case it gets forgot.

The wind blows, the dust dances. The world turns, the story goes. I am the land of forced perspective, the dull clash of canned laughter playing in the night. I am the plodding wonder of every day the same. Even my dreams need origin stories. Even my heart counts on some suspension of disbelief. You a bell and a bow, pretty ribbons and lovely knots. You a dream and a riot, every breath such promise, every word a spell.

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