It’s the same old street beneath the same old hush, an overcast dull to the color, a few shades down on the shine. I sit on my front porch on my designated seat, stoned to blue blazes but still smoking steady, feeling the flower and the blue of the hour. I had the cake, and now it’s eaten. The memory, with everything in a different tense. That long gone thrill, that long ago song. The place you stop to listen when you don’t bother to sing along. The change of cast and the missing trees. So goes another year of me.
I miss some people, I miss some pets, the drift off and the dead of the day. Potential and probability and the long way down. I stand upon my dead selves in the grave of my next self, a burble in the numbers, the links in this miserable chain. Black coffee and the lean of dusk, shamanic blood and a gut full of hungry ghosts, I steep and steam in the lingering heat and the slow change of scene. The shadows reach and deepen and the sky hasn’t found its sea legs. The year begins anew.
The song was the start of it, but a cover that caught me off my guard. I’d fill you in on the details, but this doesn’t work that way. The telling is never the moment, it’s the angles where he seeing shows. Another year older, another emptying of the threat. A husk of sodden bone and brushed blood, another hunched entity with a pinched mind. You’ll know me by my dropped pins. Exercises in ache and vague exclamations, words tangled through all the want and countdowns of my petty, ridiculous incarnation. Another candle blown out before it existed, another turning further from the thrill.
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