no there there

What are we to do with the stardust in our eyes when the day comes too soon? Who are we beneath this skipped beat sky with the sun sneaking in? The past both irretrievable and omnipresent, the future a bedtime story meant to keep the monsters away, it is always this hopeless plodding on. Winnowed away as the world comes in heaps, dreams drained of all but dread, wishes left hanging from the absent star that looms in the halo of its destruction. Just the misgiven and the lost beat, and the trembling transmission of this wad of nerve, gristle, and gloom. 

The room closes in, hiding from the broadcast sky and the telegraphed reactions. The indecisive autumn, and the sinking ship of soul. Fragments full of hyperbole and fragrant turns of phrase. The dimwit numberings, and the digging of the grave. Weeping through the seasons and praying for sweet mercy, carrying cruelty in this dead eyed heart and dismal daily sins on these lips. The habitual rhetoric and spit. The story that goes nowhere, this sticking with the sinking ship.

No one calls, no one writes, nothing eases the endless nights or puts the ceaseless days to rest. I am the roaches in the ashtray, I am the spider in the shower. It goes on and on, and all but the most dismal pieces of me have long since gone to dust. There is no case to be made but want and lack, the empty overcoat hanging on the broken rack. The abandoned altar waiting with nothing left to offer, the strange pains rising from the dying flesh dragged through this pointless pantomime. Music hall, and vaudeville, and all the shows that have all but closed. The shine of salt streaked cheeks and the Seven Cities of Cibola shimmering somewhere beyond the horizon. Drunk on compasses and words I’ll never hear, starving on all these just desserts.