There is a seething in the way the hours weave through me, time’s thread so slender it wends through the spin of particles, the ache and the relentless gaze of the entity. From bed break to slumber’s careless spurs I drag and wrest my begrudged bones. Soft shoes and homophones, to wake so beaten, to rise so bold. This rich unfolding, the rush into and out of being like a burning at the borders, I fall and rise. Clockwork is work, I say, counting every in and out.
It is the towel on the bar and the clock on the wall, the grit and grime of the shower stall, every mirror scuffed by heavy eyes that follow no matter where you go. Things keep happening until we wear them out. One and then the other, the consequences of the felt and the break. The wandering of the hungers, the inevitable next as we gather up the gravity and drop the the other brick. A deep breath, then we’ll see. It’s all there whether we’re here or not, but it’d miss our company. The show goes on, but the bottled water costs fifteen bucks a piece.
It wasn’t like this when the old ones arose to stir the soup. The wrigglers the opened eye of the smoldering mass as its fury chilled, answering the entropy. Then they began singing in the atmosphere and calling up the oceans, churning in the teeming depths and the thin veneer of the earth. The creation of the chemistry, the pulling of the seed of starlight from the plucked petals of the sun. The crunched the world from the innumerable multitudes, the bones and blood of probabilities a strumming of strings. Then the bouquet of appetites, the flesh and fire and the song lines and all roads going. The ancients and the ancestors, you and me, the plants and trees and birds and bees. The perpetual arising to meet the reap. This feast unleashed upon either side of time.
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