The ritual comes from some other childhood, the one spent in a different era in a different clime. Those landscapes made from Christmas cards and Peanuts specials, the seasonal face missed in the rainy winters of California. Laid out beneath that mythic sky, raking arms and legs n the snow. The dismal call of creation pealing through the names in play, we settle on angels. The world is not what we call it, the words so slick and without purpose. The facile tactics offered up to call down heaven.
It is the hour of the crow, the raucous calling of roost to flock, black wings and harsh laughter filling the ambivalent skies. It is the season of the brush fire, smoke clinging to the periphery of the brightest day. All around these narrowed eyes and widened roads gather these ghosts of fear and fire, the hollowed out hearts that make such plaintive hopes. I swallow the last measure of my coffee, tying my spirit to the seething of nobel gasses. Binding my soul to this imagined reckoning of the gap.
The romance is over, but the band plays on. Maybe you are broke, maybe you folded, but the game does not end. You breath in air, you exhale dreams. This is the trick of culture, it is a feature of the mystery. All the high-toned talk and these earnest beliefs, it is still the story that fills the gaps and chasms. Dirt on your face and blood in your mouth, you loose your tongue and call down all the stars. The gutters are glutted with leaf and bone. Such a card, such a caution, these brittle sheafs of spells and kisses gathered and spent like burdened limbs. Without an angel in sight or mind, you see them everywhere. Without a course or a clue, you surrender to the torrent, keeping what wings will have you.
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