It’s life, so sometimes the sirens slide under the saxophone. It’s life, so sometimes baby goes boom. There’s no telling what’s coming around the corner. There’s no telling who’s getting hurt. Hard bones bumping into things that are harder still, the mind never really ready for the lessons matter has in store. All the things that didn’t kill you, didn’t kill me either. We’re all immortal until the hammer comes down.
Sunup, sundown, the day keeps dragging around. Nightfall, it’s all wolves in wool, how we howl and slaver at our secret dreams. Comes the chalk, comes the clock, comes the lady with the alligator purse. We strive to stay a step ahead of the devil or to knock god off their throne. The world we built around the world is a centrifuge, built to concentrate graft from our common gifts. Stacks of tricks, words and wicks, things to sling wildly and burn when we’re not feeling too terribly bright. All this labor without a word from the savior.
I was cold, and I was beneath the moon up the tree. The night was sotted with broken clouds, so I’d see a star here a star there, but not enough to get a sense of the constellations. I stood hands in pocket, looking at the waning moon, turning phrases silently on my tongue. I had stepped outside in dull resignation at the insistence of a car alarm, a little gander to go with the what the fuck, but I stopped to stare because what was there was there. The sort of thing I write about, if I write about anything at all.
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