Again and again it is the barbarians at the gate. Again and again it is the fall of Rome. A lot depends on where you get it. A lot depends on how you’re tuned. Archival film on art school loops, a bent of lore and shtick, the words running every which way the moment they are spoken. The elders voice their opprobrium to present absences, the world already eluding their grasp as they fade to static and ether. The numbers game still playing out on our ever beleaguered youth, beset by their own problems and the problems left in their lap. Lesser evils are still evil, but sometimes there are laughs and snacks.
The ghosts come as long as we let them. The ghosts come back tailing the words straight from our mouths. Open up and loose this empty. Open up and fill the flame. The wheel of the world and the tides of time, the rocker off its rails. This breath one slow sigh. This breath one long signal. The set up and the knock down. Wiseacre rhythms punctuated with programmed applause and commercial breaks. Something that goes like something we know. The oracle of whatever’s on.
Each day gets misplaced in the replays. The lost apostasy and every day reckoned by the run. The business of sparrows and the remnants of the rain. Marked in bright feathers and cruel sparks, lives of great beauty and struggle stricken without a word. Adversity works it’s magic tongue and tooth, it stitches its intention to stabbed guts and the puzzle of flesh. The organism submerged below the entity, the theater and the script, ache and the endless turning of the phrase. The back cracks as the body stretches. It is the day again.
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