me too, Horatio

Here I go again, so fervent among the figments. Here I go again, pressing pictures against the glass. The chagrin factored into to every action, these alternate universes of spilled milk and cursed to the touch, weary of the play by play but bound to it by oath and altar. I sift through the dust and the literature while everyone wants to throw me their ghosts, muddying the water with the flapping of their lips, soaked as we are to the bone in the rime of the mind. By each station we are beyonded. By each angle occulted to some sight. Forever feeling around unseeing, always a few steps away from lost.

So we are adequately refracted, pupils contracted and aperture pronounced. We fill the mirrors as we part the waters and bullets fly astray. The galloping heart still trotting along, forgetting every path. Every sense imbued with a whim or two, tinging the light of this dream stitched and lust licked world, trailing twists of plot and turns of phrase behind. Some prayer, some song, the punch landed line or the ride along. Where else to linger than at the intersection of the little details and the big picture as the self accumulates? The moment, where it’s going, and where you’d have it go. I pace the foundation and witness the grim regent, spirit or revenant. Other than to say what seems and say what’s so, what is there that won’t give way, what is there that won’t let go?

There is nothing left of poetry, philosophy another of faith’s long cons. There is nothing to hang a hat upon, no shoulders left to cloak. The plodding observations, the worn gears of the machine stuck on repeat. The impulse first and foremost, bowling over book, spook and beast. This is how the sausage gets made, this is where the magic happens. The ache of resignation, the appetite so resigned. We say it is so, we say it aloud, rent garments and raw knees. Eyes closed tight around unseen horizons, glory coming if it knows what’s good for it.