The shadows fill in the fence as the sun strolls up the gray blue grade, winter a residue of cool nights and calendar names. The light lashed to crack and crevice, sweat beads slightly before being wicked away by the dry boned sky. Over the fence, children are playing in the schoolyard, screams and bells and the mad laughter of recess ringing out across the block. The morning is soft and clasps the last still moments as noon edges near. Everything happens at once.
I worry away at the frayed corners of consciousness, words always a sorry excuse for perception. Being at the best of times always boiling over, suchness and thusness and the dance of opposites. Something someone once said, fable and allegory clotted in the blood of existence, sparrow and nuthatch and the other mainstays of this mush mouthed augury. Every glistening wing and delicate victory of triumphant survival awaiting its pin. Every careless breath, every heart fraught syllable meant to add to the collection. The moment preserved, the authoritative this is so.
It’s not that I don’t want to know, it’s just that your story isn’t the story that you know to tell. The this and that of this augmented gossip, telephone for the shriveled soul, can’t contain the truth. Just another agreed on game. Just the latest trend of the tongue. I’m sitting here with the music playing loud. I’m out here waiting for the coffee to kick in. This tall ship creak of bone and ligament, the rasp and sputter of this burdensome breath. I don’t trust the words, I don’t trust my senses, the directions always heading off. The bright sun of a California winter sitting in a tree, k i s s i n me. The truth abandoned long ago, and faith not in my skill set.
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