ideation

The sunken sun has burnt a hole in the world, all the night full of endings, all the darkness tinged with smoke. The road drizzles away, a rifle barrel black. I stare until I forget I have eyes. I stare until everything returns anew. It is that desert gas station feel, with the peeling away sound of a passing train blending with a radio station harmonica. It is that loaded pistol feel, lingering in all the moments just before.

The singer unburdens a throat full of wire and romance, some lost darling, some window waiting in the night. Songs fall upon the dead gray pavement, the gas pump beeping offers. Songs settle under the threadbare tires, pooling like oil, shattering like dreams. The radio strays from an idling car, a young couple stuck in some curbside pantomime. The attendant awaits the latest assault on his solicitude, stuck in the blare of those unyielding lights. He waits amid candy bars and cigarettes and sundries, an island of shabby treasures and blunt desires. The couple drive away, taking the music with them. No-one to miss them left behind.

Dogs bark from the neighbors window. The heat bends the sky to the point of breaking. I am alone with the usual weakness. I am accompanied by these typical flaws. Indolence perched on one shoulder, the promise of steel upon the other. I watch the pavement as I work the locks. I stare at my shoes until I forget my feet. All the conclusions got there before me. The feeling all that lingers.