the muddle

The spring winds spill like cast off angels, tumbling terribly on down, the day so adept at taking its turn.  Long, bright sun slick days painted in ominous golds and greens, blue as any impending doom. The low end of the harmony the blackened foundation of the glory of the firmament. Mother Mary wailing at the feet of salvation, the gift of a death unfit for a savior. So we move from clutter to clearing, from dim resolve to cruel ubiquity within the space of a breath. We are the word moving over the waters, the dust and the conflagration of vague conviction and interminable consequence. The belly tight around the empty, the blood between you and the sky. 

And here I sit, riding the ribbon of smoke and breath. Here I sit, embedded with the rituals, ashtrays and tobacco flecked words and the lensing of the cannabis. Thinking in churchills and minutes exposed to the undue elements of cast and cult. The lonely black dog and the yard in disarray, the swaying of winter wheat and dandelion caught in the long light of springtime with the sun in her hair. This hi light of low living, feasting on the fruit, spitting seed and stone. Here at the foothills of this desiccation, sticks and bones holding the place of stars and stones, the fortune told with the serpent’s tongue.

You think the thoughts you have are yours. You think the words come a running. It’s hard to fault, these particulars of perception. Location repeated three times, a simple spell bespoke on the sly side of the tongue. The lazy river running through us, the moon on the water, the sun in our sight. The curse of self and the contraction of the invocation, ripples between the worlds sharing a single skin, the intertwined roots of soil and sea in the muddle of this restless blood. A moment turned into empty words, a prayer starved of its very breath, the ceaseless preachings of the wind.