doomsday nights

 Dusk came early and the mail came late. Smoke was everywhere. My lungs and heart exchanged expletives and goodbyes, their long established grievances given new grist to grind. I rattled and puffed along as I always seem to do, the lickings never stopping the ticking completely. I don’t make good company, but I sure do keep the time. Some of me is shareware, some is ancient graven prototype that remains anathema to the jealous gods, some is plug and play no payments up front. The cost comes in the collateral, dark visitations and insistent visions, shrapnel and all manner of animals underfoot. Night came, all wind and ash and the ghost of that doomsday sun whispering that we may not ever meet again. I kept put like I usually do. I know my place; this isn’t it.

These days it’s all death squads and despots, cheap dumb hoods wrecking up the country while well meaning fools get out the vote. Nature has an answer, or rather gathers consequences like picked posies. Flood and fire, blight and plague. Bullets are cheap and flying in swarms, but they are the least of the busy demons. Money is the root of deep stupid, but it won’t be around for long. Caught between brutal narcissists and their planned deprivations and the simpering of our better angels, the devil will have his due. At the tarnished end of the golden rule, they will offer us our final forms based upon the evil in their hearts and the fear that fills their nights. Time’s up, but who’s counting? 

There is a gauntlet that has been tossed. A line drawn by fools who cannot hold a line or take a punch or bear a burden. They are brutal, but they are gutless. Make them bleed, make them burn, watch them wail and scatter. I limp along, a broken old man who may as well swing. I am not strong or smart or swift. I am a fire all but extinguished, a candle that gutters and pops. The days are mark by shameless crime and rife with desolation, the nights thick with smoke and curses. I beat out a weary tattoo upon the drum of my bones with steel sledge and iron bar, choking on my lack of smoke and the sorrows of the unloved. When the killing picks up steam, I will not be missed. I am among the dead already, missing in my skin, empty in the eyes. Be certain, they will come. They will not be ready.