apostasy

Mostly, I know things don’t go this way. Mostly I know it’s me. The baffling bare knuckle of the everyday, calendars and traffic and the traveling sun. The way the ends won’t meet me halfway.    The way I never accomplish accomplishments. Nothing sticks, nothing lasts, and also I quit a lot. The world works one way, and I barely function at all. So, yes, I know the problem is me. Nice work, Columbo. 

So I sit here as the day goes long. So I sit here as the earth exudes its multitudes. Aphids, mites, and carpet beetles. A legion of the chitinous and winged tangled in my beard and crawling on my scalp. Mosquitoes, flies, and paper wasps. Eyes grainy with allergens and the green exceeds its bandwidth. I smoke long and slow upon the sacred path of diminishing returns. I turn over with my back to the sun. 

This is the path of attachment, the low road of letting go. This is the wash of warm shadows in the glow of the going gone. The consequences of being of such little consequence adding up in ache and drift, hunched beneath these ill fitting burdens and well earned beatings. The monster stays the monster, the beauty goes her way. This pause before the dusk comes calling, this settling of old bones and new mantles, the dying name and the bloom of the forever moon. The world spills away, awaiting your return while this absence looms.