little pitchers

This one starts with the needle on empty. This one ends in bottles and brass. The long odd Sunday, the stricken god back again, eggs and rabbits and other time honored habits strewn about. All the roads weary from the wandering, all the bones speaking in the past tense, the blood always circling back to the prophecies. The soundness of the defeat, the crack clean through the being, the firmament crashing down to the foundation. Gravity a gavel and law gossip, curses on the wing and little pitchers everywhere.

The pavement and the asphalt and the folly that is flesh. The light that clings long, the light that hangs low. Something in the script, something at an intersection, the oblivion as we read our dooms aloud. They come at you with their crowd sourced magics, they come swinging with hired guns and singular assassins, they come calling with bright eyed beauties and slick talk and bricks of cash. Unless you begin from broken, they’ll stop you in your tracks. Unless you stay indistinguishable and insignificant, they will give you your name.

There are days I remember remembering. I remember the stories and the faces I made. Sometimes I add introduction and preamble, sometimes I wave my hand as if revealing the epilogue. A wistfulness about the eye, a furrowing of the brow. Music playing in the room, voices coming through the walls. Shapes moving outside the window, shadows stirring on the ceiling. Every word frighteningly alive, every target moving, we are skin and scar always just arriving. The weight of the ache carried down the days, living the only way to know you lost. Broken glass and spent shells, another record book number.