The wind howled through this afternoon beneath a half moon sunken shell blue into the sky. The trees all set to do their dervish dance, sweeping and swaying up the heavens. The people commit their ceremonies, flagged out and swaddled in mythic finery, in worship of factory fresh deities and empty selves yet to crack. I am clad in smoke and wails of Sleater-Kinney, the mystery never asking how it works. The sun brushes up against the budding tree nearest and a breeze stirs scene. Nothing is ventured at every turn and twist. It all fits, just some pieces are for pictures you’ll never see.
I pause for a moment, letting the words hang. I sip some coffee, I take a drag of smoke. I stare at the street outside my caging, filling with long shadows as the sunlight climbs up the house front, cold despite all the blue and the bright. My gaze is the strop to whet all appetites, this occluded, ancient engine turning the words wanting, this misfit architecture as binding as the iron we orbit. I hold the coffee close enough to kiss, blowing steam over the steel mug lip and the black elixir still changing states. The wax on moon bright above, the world stirs everywhere at once.
The world is made of warnings, it spins in endless alarm, caroming through the neighboring unfathomables with the moon all stalk and stan on its heels. The tide of sky is ever changing and the earth is never still beneath our feet. The dead accumulate on our least trafficked roads, and the flocks and schools and swarms of the earth are disappearing like dreams in the day. All the signs say stop, and still we wheel madly along, on and on and ever so much more. Riding these tidal forces wave by wave, fearlessly plucking the wings of heaven’s host. Wave a flag, say some words. Watch what is left to come with all the better angels gone.
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