The truth arose with that music of absolute loss, that dissonant phrase that lays across the tracks of reason. That contrast of the harsh drowse of this painful fluorescence and that static shine falling on the wet white paint. There is that dreadful lamentation framed miniscule, the worm drowning on the pavement, that fly with one torn wing. There is that wakeful stare, realizing that the least frame is versed in its multiples, the always better or always worse. Living is the price that makes us have to hunt this cruelest music, to try to endure or address. The redress of this song the only proof we need.
So I work where I least am able, I try to fix the broken phrase of some natal soul, I try to find the flight in all this fall. Is it only in the repetition of errors? Is it only in the aggregation of blame? I am block and tackle, I am dull matter. I trust in the plans made in idle fury. I serve that aim to reserve and contain, without the least glint of reason. You pick up that huddled man, whatever the risk or whimsy. You win the argument by breaking it into little pieces, and crumbling them in your wake.
There is a line I made out of habits, ardor and languor and watching for the girl next door. There is a line I came to carry, some intersections, some delays. I hold it down for these tired schemes and half-baked theories. I hold it still because some money changed hands. The work I deny, but all that I was ever made for. The kiss held like some rough thumb and forefinger holding you by your lower lip. A surrender to the passion that dresses up like pain. The samaritan limp, that Jericho road.
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