outside the sun

Each dusk it passes the baton of dueling burdens, the bright glare of daylight to the weight of the whole sky at once. The wind going wild, whipping every tree into a frenzy, stampeding all the bags and leaves. Ghost town suburbs running out the clock. All the hopes of the day dashed into shards like the frail vessel that carried them, all the wishes of the dusk already all but dust. The local sun gives way to a host of farther stars, heaven only the speed of disbelief suspended, the universe always including you. The chimes sound, an exalted eminence soon to arrive. Gusts and the kaze of callow kami blow down limbs and shingles. Night falls hard.

Indoors the cacophonies disambiguate, they break down to the building blocks of our inattention, so many bells and whistles and feathers to follow. Nightfall now, and I take to the screens, music from the television and the words on this tablet. I never quite rise to face the day, at night at best I’m treading water. The cosmic rough and tumble to the carnal bump and grind, the trial of watching it all come true. A lifetime of intermittence, these windshield wipers set to “SURPRISE!” On a little, then a whole lot of off. Outside the sun, it’s Oop-Pop-A-Da and vampire etiquette. Nobody’s handing out invitations.

Now it’s old man bones and the night off the leash, chimes pealing out as the wind won’t relent. It’s the death of dreams and clear eyed facts, and the litany of epithets and disasters attached to the frame. Biding time until the curtain comes down, waiting around until these last lingerers pass, thinking in bullets and nooses. No click bait, no breaking news, I’m halfway through my sixth decade of the blues. I’ve reached the stage where most of the friends I’ve had will next think about me when stumbling across the obituary. I’ve reached the stage where I mostly talk to animals. Maybe there’s an object lesson. Maybe there’s a moral to pin this story on. These words will never tell! I’m only getting any better at getting worse.