Sometimes the night will tell your fortune. Sometimes the night won’t give you the time of day. I can’t tell you what to believe. I can’t keep track of the running tab let alone all these worlds of nuance and sharp edges. I’ve seen enough to know how little I’ve seen. What words, what witness, this second hand chair, this lamp of the antecedents. All slow fade and long fall, I doze and stir and stride. Adding up the aches and the deficits, my last nerve all burning flags.
So there’s rough smoke and ice water, coughing as condensation drips down the glass. So the big black cat is in my lap and the old bones hurt like the dickens. A tuft of hair floats past my face and the music is louder all the sudden. Not so much a shift in genre or intensity but the luck of the shuffle and levels of the masters. Or so I sit and imagine, the songs winding one by one, far away and long ago and the heart here and now. Too many fresh hells, not enough jezebels, and the rough ride around the clock.
Someday I’ll get the story going. Someday I’ll get caught up. The letters that I should have written, the letters that I lost. Given up to the course of madness left to its own machinations, going down the road of all frail flesh, and the haunts of hungry ghosts. Old wounds mutter, growl, and wail. New wounds stand up and harmonize, down to the punitive rounds. The sentence served to bridges burned, the lonesome that has gathered, hands in its pockets and whistling away. I have a name I find hard to say, I have a number that has long since been up. The world is riddled with sameness and thick with difference. There’s no telling what might go your way, whatever you think you’ve got coming.
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