I'm not much to look at, rags and paste and mumbled aches. I have to hide my eyes from the sun, pale and vaguely searching away. I have to elude the truth just to keep on course. Days wasted on wordless reading and stifled thought. Out among the dry air and aimless dust I wait to wear out my last welcome. Every shadow weighs the same until it is lifted by the wind.
The world doesn't work so much as whirl and whirl, the fleeting calendar and the restless seas. Blood is spilled, candles lit. The reel seems to rock and sway, dance upon dance, brick upon brick. All this persistent building, the ruck and tilt of memory, forests of kelp stinking up the shore. All this reckless dreaming the bones that hold the tide. Maybe it is the moon I am missing. Maybe the story can only find you once you've gone.
I tire of all these heights and hollows. I tire of the drift of dreams and days. The sun stinks of piss and rust. Life will grant a million wishes, one by one. Years burn into clean gray smoke and the flavor of soot. Who knows who wins the prize? Who knows what next one may awake? I write these on the paw smudged windshields. I write these in flowers of the graves of dead gods. Every word worn out, holding onto this last latest breath.