deadpan

Wash down your wishes with whatever poison you prefer these days, there’s no sense in waiting for a civilized hour. It’s always something sometime goes the toast, the glass paused the hat tips the minimum conditions met, the muddle that binds the ritual to the words and the words to the bones that burden on and on. Take to the tasks you follow, speak to the ones you speak to. Heaven’s always further every day. Bear only the burdens you must.

It’s always waiting in the in box. It’s always ready to barge right in. Even in the washed out and wound down, it makes its marks and keeps appearances. You learn to take it by the grain. You learn to let it wear itself out. The treasure maps and stubborn stories. The way these dreams take the wheel. Always riding out something, always another twist for the sake of the turn. Look to the mirror, look to the window. Play the averages.

The answer gets out, either the dogs at the door, or the train as it wails. The shadows weep through the long light, soaking up the bones of the blue, attending to the slow brine of night. The numbers dribble down the chin. Little but the lean of the mood, the moon coming on. Little but the deadpan kept on in case the hurt is lurking, the hard that is hitting. Try on the appetite, wear out the hunger. The nights are growing longer.