hubris

The words will accumulate without any encouragement. The words will flex and coil, out there in the common tongue. They strain and gall and gather, each one a secret seed. A piece of something too big to fit in any one skull. Even the least syllable more than a mouthful. Even the shortest sentence served hard, parsed out like bricks for wolf worn pigs. Even these claims and cautions are hijacked by the ten thousand rivals and the rigorous grift for meaning. The long haul left back somewhere on time’s old roads. Tomorrow changing flags as it’s read.

I’m not that kind of man, whatever kind you name me. It’s not that sort of story, whatever the story told. Dying in these daily revelations. Stuck staggering around my cage. Circling this sickness, folding the forms. I’d lay it out as plain as day, but the days are all too plain. I’d save it for posterity, but I’m not that kind of writer. The day come due for deft elaboration, and I turn out all thumbs.

These are the letters never written, the books in the blood remetabolized as dreams and ghosts. That train in the station waiting in a huff, the busy dither of jobs and bodies, cups and headphones. The glazed trail of daydream eyes, of strangers and stops.  A touch of color, a flash of sky. The words all playing freeze tag, wild in the idle of the mind. This the unmarked stone, awaiting the rise of the revenant.