And so the dog crippled the skunk, leaving it to drag and dread around the backyard. Even I know where it happened. Even I know when a crime is a crime. Tomorrow the skull of this sacrifice will be the oracle of the next order, the tales told of tomorrow once we get the drift of the smoke and the opining of the stars. Somewhere between tobacco tar and sunsets the scent takes its tithe. A violation of the sacred, the incantation of rent soul and the toothsome incarnate, this blind horizon. The laws of transmission and the tireless cogs of consequence. Even this savage, selfish appetite knows sin by the aroma alone.
Unkept yards and unkempt minds, flies on my skin and the sun in my eyes, my frame slouches and sighs as time keeps coming due. The coda and the corpus, the chorus minus the girls, the stone hums along as the sky sings and sings. The seasons show up earlier every year, my countenance given to the glib and the grave. Last calls and least evils, mike drops made of glisten and glum, wholehearted devotions and lost cause crowns. Root to star and all the sway and swing between, the horizon fallen prey, swallowed by this greedy imminence.
It is these monuments of self delusion, these blonde bygones and literary coquettes, oath voiders and heartbreak precedents. It is these sad sack bodhisattva and diner window derelicts, the poised notebook and pensive pen, the collateral of this skinwalker cool. We plead and ply these ancient prayers, we bleed plots and old spells, every breath a precipice. The altar and the abattoir indistinguishable amid all this sacrilegious burning, seized by design and caprice, the flesh pressed to this wanton bent. The hunger paces in slow circles, the dusk fills with night.
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