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They barrel through here like it’s damnation alley, they drive like they were whistling through the graveyard in a panic. Driven by the ghosts of never good enough, driven by the tremor of the forever too tiny to face the night, cradled in the headlights as the end comes hastened in the rear view mirror. I hold my breath at the dash of a cat caught in the shine of the oncoming, its live still scraping by at nine. I commiserate with my traffic cursing ancestors, though I never shout slow down. Between the gravy and the gravitas, I am careful of commands. You can never know what the world might do if you tell it to.

I smoke like dusty incense upon a desolate altar, I smoke like a volcano indignant at faint praise. I sanctify moth and spider, the holy always heaping it on. I bless this mess with the tangle in the streets and trees, with the avarice of every mouth slavering for a circle of salt. Every taste and tongue is holy, the sacred is using every part of the ghost, the sizzle of each sacrifice the poem of every prayer. Every rope and binding a tether on the tension, one move and the lash becomes a leash.

Don’t mistake me, I’m smitten by the intermittence. I crave these kisses from the depths of a life long drought. My intellect is threadbare and my pockets full of knives and holes. I lean hard into the momentum and leave intuition to rule my footing and my hips. Like a story run down to  the cliche of just the facts, the myth appears as if a vision the moment I step into the quest. The words all up in arms as I chomp down upon this burning branch, this happenstance gathered as we are turned into this kiss. I am only the oldest ache dragging this flavor through field and star, that touch of tongue, salt and flesh. The magic that we lead with as the world slips away.