It’s not what we can live without, but how long we survive the wound. It’s not all that is denied us, but how much we are owed. Clunking around in chunks of meat and well greased ghosts, hungering for some sputter or spurt, all this smoke owed to the grill and reentry. The atmosphere stuffed with our follies and our cataclysm catechism, our insistences and our all in wagers. This one, then the next. Always some passage towards core or star. The portion owed the fuel for ignition. The bright and heat of bearing the burn your one true name.
Personally, who knows what I might believe. This tide to ride all sides of, the breath we puff and pass, the seething in the stricture, the blazing rhetoric of of each rawboned nerve. Washed in wails and incitements, set to work the desperate edge of this sad collapse, turning sirens and piano jazz into the chatterings of this pre cadaver case study. The dull lessons on the edge of the arts, the way we play to the cheap seats and the holy fools we hope to learn by. The clambering of the thoughts and wounds, breathless wishes alight in my bones, I tuck away what I either can’t or won’t and wear the moment down to dust.
A dog put down on New Year’s Eve, a dead bird in my hands. The way the light reflects and the frame is stained. The refraction at an angle, forever always looking in, this light going this way so long it’s no wonder we don’t know what we’re seeing. The sky tonight before the garage full of Orion, that winter’s hexagon nearly spread out like a map on the hour of just so happened glances, this life steeped in staring at stars and birds. Always watching the flora and the horizons, always on the look out for a little of the same old new. The fires go out, and the sorrows gather, husks and deadpan hells and some beauty that can’t be reached. A shamble of names and faces, limbs and places, movies and meals. The period left hanging off a long line of lasts.
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