lachrymostly

Maybe I’m waiting on the moon in the window. Maybe I’m waiting on the dinner bell to ring. It’s going to be the same old drag because I’m the same old load.  Pruned down the branched synapses just to the bruised and bitter, firing up the same old neurons to keep the litany on repeat. A chair in a room, sound and light and the worn down body with the wound tight nerves. A saxophone from sixty years ago sounds out. I can see the moon if I turn my head a little. Maybe I will take a look.

So the moon’s on its mission, reeling with its grasp entangled with the clutches of the earth. We’re all along for the hurtle. I’m working the old sore spot, hammering on my stories. Patching up the holes riddled through me with aimless words, stitching together the shreds, adding to the pattern from the palette of shavings and static. Add a few more sentences, tamp down the hopeless with dead eyed star gazing, let the tears zig and flow. So we live in the gods’ dreaming, flickering away on the surface of these endless depths. This slow dissolve from blood to ghost is the ache that’s always on.

The words don’t matter, what counts is the collateral damage they leave. Shards of thoughts too sharp to leave, fragments of fragile tenders lodged forever in the center of your being. A chair in a room, music and a lamp. These ample repetitions through phrase and fragment cruising ‘round the turnaround, small angry engines screaming through the lanes and courts. The moon low in a corner near the sill, the going on still going, the gone still gone. The words not on speaking terms, the tears always showing up empty handed.