explosion forecast

Now it’s down to what the day can’t give. Now it’s down to what you think in the dark. It doesn’t matter what they’re celebrating, it doesn’t matter what you’ve lost. You’ve gone so far that there’s no one who’ll answer. You’ve gone long past people you can call. It’s not the shadows that want to put their hands all over you. This tension between tense and sense, the blessings of the atmosphere, the strange supplications of strangers with sin up their sleeves. The hollowed out portion of a holiday that they celebrate despite you. Plots and spells and go to hells, extinguishing any threat that gets too close by old rigors and rote reflex, only this stubborn hunger and romances long since murdered and dumped in a bog. You wait while the day lets down its hair. You wait while the pyrotechnics punch themselves out.

And so comes the blaze and bombardment, so go the customary displays of froth and fervor. The dogs tremble a rattle from the shower stall door, cowering as is their custom in the bathroom, hiding from a fusillade that won’t let up. This is the way the world walks right through, flesh steam and bones strung beads for all their mass can manage. The surrender of tongue and tense take hold of the telling, time just one thing after another. A riotous cacophony comes wheeling around the corner, yet the latest barrage in broad daylight. A sound rises almost despite my throat, crow harsh choking, a gasp for something more than breath. Even if it was a prayer, the knowing is going with me to my grave. 

I sit still and a song is playing. I am still as the weasel goes pop. The piano keys go trinkle, tinkle the way they want to do. Thrill seekers boom and crash, trashing til they fizzle and tap out, a fire dying in the hearth as heaven gives way to the deep leaning sky. The earth will reach to meet you, the earth will seize you by the salt of your soul. We dawdle in the slow of saying as the flowers read the room, this clench of lies and iron, the shameless gaze of naked motive and brutal truth that permeates the ritual that justifies the thrall. The miracle crawling out from the rubble all frying pan and fire, the words there cutting bait. Braced for the beating, wishing on a kiss.