Without the stagecraft, the magic is at best incremental. A bit of starlight here, a slab of a moon sinking into the drab horizon. Without the show every direction is misdirection. The silhouette in the window, the coyote in the left turn lane. I drag my empty intentions along the chilly street, stars already beating a fast retreat. The world is here, loitering noiselessly. Traffic fans the intersection, watching the Christmas tree change come over the lights. That coyote fades into the long grass, carefully watching me witness its disappearance. Nothing up my sleeves--.
The thirst clings to the window dressing of this self. The dry wind, the lapsed vascular actions that hang that first sip of water as a polestar. The constellations always in the process of rewriting. Festive fragments caught on tongue tip and window glass, which fresh need huddled in the insipid swaddling cloth of my latest burden. The glass of water even better than it seems, my destiny turns again. Deck shuffled, deck gaffed, I make space for the waste I court and spurn. If it isn't appetite, what card will I force next to top the selection? If it was always appetite, the empty wouldn't sing so when the dawn claimed its winnings.
I follow the hints, I gaze at rapt spirits. I thread the needle in the blind mindless night. Such a stage, this wily old world. Such a lot of improv for such a heavy script. I take hunger and I take habit, and with pockets full of doves and secrets, I take this show on the road. Sudden dogs cry havoc, blunt wanderers clench their fists, we all play our parts. One long drink and a curl of evil smoke rising above me. A slow numb dawn, at long last giving everything away.
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