It’s in the blue, but the blue is in the batteries, fully facile in and out of the abstracts, there before seen or said. The part of the world shaken from heart and head, the hidden and the filler, the ghost that’s there when the engine idles. Scent maps and symbolic congruents, the residue left in the fittings of each word, the sky that was spoken before it was seen. A slender place holder for slabs of shared mind, the sizzle there because of the heat and the steak, the piecework puzzle all mystery and busywork. But even so, that was the sky with every strike. Blue despite the buds and limbs and wings and clouds. Blue like a shirt’s sample swatch. Blue like the sky blue sky.
Life goes on like a stream, it goes on like the show must, like lit fuse or freed fire. There’s a lot of it all at once, and most of it is plate spinning. This is a thing that I am doing, therefore it must be done, an import driven out of thin air, as fleeting and feral as any whim. But your act is your act, and the show must even so, so there you go. The color of the sky, the color of your eyes, words and pictures and all the laden empty. Stories that follow the path of the moon or the guttering of the altar wax. Stories to explain the inferno in so many steps.
Sometimes all the stuff that doesn’t happen adds up to something too. The crow calls from one corner, some loose kids yell from the other. Sometimes there’s a side to the street where nothing happens. Sometimes there are relics resistant to causality’s insistence. Rising and falling despite sun or season. Words spelled out somewhere before the pictures were filled in. Some huddled hush, some gathered strays. Someone speaks close and wings beat the blue.
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