episode

This one starts with the pines through the window, though I don’t know where it’s going yet. Maybe there’s a lesson, maybe the moon shows up. Maybe there’s nothing but the vamp, the one, the two, the old soft shoe. The wind is on its hind legs, and the sky is a gentle brushed blue, and the pines half shrug as they sway. I falter on without much else to go on, aimless efforts stranded in strays and eddies, a shuffle of loosely parked cars and gossip. The wind and the waving, and the obdurate stretch of daylight.

There’s a train wail, then the whole catfight raucoustra choreography with every hiss and yowl in the canon. The window is dark now so you know it’s night. The big empty yawning straight out into the air and localized effects. The empty on me all the time, then all at once. The fading of a pair of motorcycles, the keening of a far off siren, this feeling away from my aptitudes. Sometimes there are dogs barking and they aren’t my dogs. Other times, well, who’s to say? 

Mostly it’s the scene you make of it, dead branches blown to life by gust and zephyr animated by the sameness of the background. A sense of mountain range or star spread amid the spider silk and deadfall. One or the other, then one for all. I begin, a flinch or a feint, then some is or ain’t. There’s no telling because I am out of things to say. So brick by brick and bird by bird, there is a shape inside the skull. The path made clear in absence and inference, the passage becomes the text. An open window, and on you go.

the effin ineffable

It’s the way the world watches you through each crack and crevice. It’s the world that watches you beguiled inside your sight, this testimonial of chemistry, this scribble of quantum epithets. It scratches at your itches and lies through your teeth, a victorious laurel or funeral wreath. Every breath all rasp and ration, syllables slipping through flesh and bone, the cloister of the nasal and the brothel of tongue and lips evident in every prayer. The are a million million transitions, sums tippling from the tree roots, staggering calculations made entirely of the collateral coiling into infinity and exhaust. You build and boil in filament and plume, your secret only lasting as long as you burn. 

It all keeps coming so you fill in your fire with whatever might fuel you, the hard won placeholder as you tack against the billowing moments, the star you are in the minded map. Immediacy always currency in the profane exchange of nows, the seeing only after the say so, the vow gone as it is voiced. Everything errs on the effin ineffable, this expression of scads of peculiar particulars, this stir of collaterals reaching out to the firmament. This slow inventory, counting down by unfathomables, blood and breath and the stubborn depths. The stagger, the struggle, the grudging not so fast. The grace despite the placement, the strive behind the trash. 

It’s there as the sun beats heat into the scene so hard I can feel it in the shade of the porch, a soft opening of summer, a stamp upon the back of my skull. It’s there as the scenery is shaped by the laborious light, plaited grains and blazing chains and symbols shed to the syllabary, a loose conspiracy of various wings and halos and the usual harbingers hearking it all to hell. It’s that natal rhythm section bending your ear, all these lessons having evaporated years and years ago. No leads, no limburger, if it’s dancing then we dance. No primer, no paint, just this faint pulsing of the process. The tilt of the wind in what is missing.

monkey’s paw

I lost count of the answer staring at the ashtray, the remainders in some strange arrangement, the what it was that I was smoking. Maybe if I took a picture, maybe if I read the room. Instead there’s only evidence, the residue of ambient wishing, the hint of some coded clue. The song gets stuck in the shuffle. The song gets caught in the wind. I guess that’s what keeps me listening to the tuning out and tuning in. These gaudy stragglers, these spent fragments, the ringing of a chime. Sifting through transmissions, all echoes and repetition as the phrase overturns, awaiting this ignition.

So much for the scintillation, so much for the effervescent, so much for the spheres wheeling out a tune. The stars stay parked where they were. The moment gone the way they do. The plot lost until you’ve ridden off the rails. The flesh chills, the spirit slows, loitering in the leaves. I can nearly taste the kiss that sealed it, the magic and the monkey mind, the dirt to every deed. I can nearly see that bright tomorrow snatched away in the small prints and fortune stitched lines. The devil deal, the slap of the creator, something wicked shambling in the words. It comes on command and leaves you wanting behind bolted doors. 

Count your wishes as if they were blessings. Enjoy a mythos woven around card cheats and lawyers, caught as we are in the telling. The little dog nips at the fool’s heels and hams, such fun for the laughing, as they spill like Jack and Jill. The story is there for anyone to tell, depending upon such things as the rake of the stage and the average word count. The game is in your face and what is shown. The troubles keep coming, they soldier on and work in teams and platoons and hordes. Trouble knows you like the back of its hand, trouble comes looking. God’s love at best a beating, hell wide open because of everything you are.

underscore

By the time the day cracks the curtains you’ve already been up for hours, the pause and pacing of the night watching all this inking in. You’ve put your imagination through the motions, recycling dread and dream as the probabilities and anxieties race around the track, figure eights and tectonic plates in the gallery of your incessant engines. Daylight pushes through the grease and the grays in your drowsing gaze, rearranging the scenery and glamming up the dust. Again you press against boundaries, call down the spirit to stir your bones, scorching the firmament with your scalding prayers and pro forma epithets. Again you let the minutes fall as they may.

You think in eras, you think in titles, you think in hints and harms. You think in things undone and in the doing, scouring the checklists and keeping score. Where you failed and how you measured and the surprise that was yours and yours alone. Old masters and young turks, and the newest schools you never quite get the gist of, wearing the skin of shibboleths and the ghost of primal scams. You built the golem and tricked the djinn into offering up their terrible autograph, blue breathed and shimmering into the very semblance of the shape. The schism left like the lines of the tightly folded fist, another shape to take to when the light is low. The spell there smiling straight through your eyes.

There it is, the insistence in every ease. Here we go, the oldest tricks in the book. The moon shrinks, the night takes it out of context, Leonard Cohen is dead and stealing your girl somewhere between scrawled letters and needle skips. The dreams wear out just when you start to get good at them, the nightmares dirges made from drear threats and jump scares, prayers slinking unbidden out the door. It takes strange turns between serpentines, zigging when they think you’d zag. The stories fevers squeeze from you, turncoat gods and fine print devils pressing your breath through the breach, terms and conditions and promises made of lies. The squirming of the shadows with the light implied.

art for fuck’s sake

It’s not even halfway through May and the moon’s charge is running down, the day busy filling in the blanks. A long blue washed out empty flexing hard at the mirror or the spring, the ache a note sustained, a stitch to hold the thought so prolonged in its dissolution. The and ifs only as ifs as far as the metaphor will go, throat cleared to the sound of motors, smoke loitering below the spider strewn eaves. There’s a picture within the picture, a play within the play. A motorcycle dopplers into distance, the sky a blinding gray.

There’s an order read on rote, a way you take to scan the stacks, a science to your senses. The crow calling from the long dead branch, the wind splitting the tall bursting stands of grass into song and signal, a rhythm slowly swaying. The want in the wait, the jumping line of the story to the double Dutch skip. Something in the genre of foretelling, a feeling to the atmosphere, a wing waiting without flight. A convention to the conceit of these recycled symbols, the skin walking Lives of the Saints, the root reaching to molten stone and ardent star. 

There’s no altar obliging incense, no icon to receive any further flourish of skull and limb. There’s a hardly picture hung. The old ways insist down to the detritus, other nations and the anthemic thrum of ice cream trucks, the contrivances the earth informs weigh like covenants as the afternoon dithers away. Something is happening between the woodwinds and the brass, a stirring from the in between, a striving down to the dust. The details here to devil away at, the last light another round of Turkey in the Straw looping through the streets, the moon hollow hours away and already towards gone. 

hand fed

It’s a bright blue day when sight returns, gaze spilling down the grade that I roughly gauged as the angle of the wind, all docile thoughts and claymores without caution signs as the spirit checks in with the flesh. All is wanting in that crowded lost and found, the caprice long since having abandoned the capers, false shadows and feints of the blade up and down the cavalcade. All gallows and grist, the final hypnotist not hip enough to read the room, everything left to the open stance and other hand fed inevitabilities. 

I will burn all the letters left, I will recycle the dusty notebooks and chicken scratch journals. Believe me, no one’s archiving this media. No one’s taking notes. Still waist deep in hoarded gewgaws and frippery, drawers full of ledgers dating back decades, and all the neighboring hatred. The darling detritus left to mark the bright fire of a past tense life, this emergent hovel, this changing habitat. The urgency of the tomb as people watch the clock and check their phones while I bleed out slow. 

Then this long stretch of twilight, this slow spectrum of the locally available gloaming. Then the hours beset by mosquitos and the mistakes of moths, soured souls and the thickenings of smoke. Out west gazing westward deep in the costume change portion of this endless eastern plummet. Each sleepless stretch steeped in sameness, the dance captured in amber, the altered countenance as the struggle sinks beneath the tar. Here amid glimpsed spirits and extinct dreams, these screen whittled shadows. The grace all distance and revision as the night buries me again. 

tempo

Sooner or later the moment arises there in the tub, where the dull reveal of you meets the water at its lowest point. At least the water usually has enough decorum to remain close enough to silent so it counts, so the telling is up to you, you detail devil you. Is it the steam that rises from the steeping, the warble of the opened valve, that seal that is so like a kiss you taste it on your lips. Is it the memory crystallized from glistening slick in warmth light, fluid in the whispers that slip like a tongue between phrases. You shine without saying, where the words wait beneath the burbling all about.

I missed out on childhood sweethearts and campfire ghosts, culled early for absent self awareness, taught a place by elusive blossoms and blunt force. Another rage sick wallflower to drawl and droop on their summer stoop. Another magazine think piece past the time of the magazine, anti social low functioning old men are sad and because they behave in unpleasant and negative ways. Sing me another song of sorrow. Hang another sack of crap from the boughs of the blues. Reckless with furies and affections, I teeter away in the rigging. Most falls are inevitable given a little time.

There you are and there’s the magic, there you go and there’s the spell. It’s in the stretch of your neck, it’s in the muttering of your bones. The spell doesn’t quit easily, the spirit there forever voting flesh. Your presence credits the composition, needles always stitching, silk gleaming from the eaves. Your presence takes a lot with it when it goes. The wound does its work, the clock loses a few to the count. Knots holding knots, the grip of the materials even tighter than the grasp of your intentions. There you go making wings and waves.

affect

There is a weight worn, a countenance whittled with thoughts and burdens born, all the various sorts of worry and weather that a face can carry right there in the middle of the frame. The sore eyed sights, the busily bundles metaphors, the unconscious cold reads of prophesy ready and waiting for these furthered complications. What fills the mirror, what fills the seats, what is turned to words and worms by the dull repetition of the conversational clock, upfront and forthright despite our obligatory feints and obfuscations. The recorded emotion etched into the flesh, carried on and on through our long and awful lives, waving like flags or the relentless pounding of the sea. 

The moon waxes, the night wanes. The room rings with the shade of dreams. To wake is to turn a light off. To breathe is to flinch at the touch of the blade. Vision woven with what the mind would make of it, aware as you weave the very air of this entanglement. No one watches while you mark the moon. No one sees you as you rewrite the rules. Is there a redistribution of emotion while you try on your next expression? Do you feel it in your face? You are seen by the masks and the statuary. You are witnessed by creatures that you would not care to know.

It takes a lot to move the needle. It takes a lot to leave a mark. All that is lost to lay a trail, all that is abandoned to render a road, uphill with the heavy load. We part ways in familiar places, close folders and watch the sky go wing struck, the freeway beside the parking lot long after the scent was lost. Violins threaded through the vocals with the west a burning branch. The feather weighing down the scale, the scene framed in a roil of smoke and obdurate verbs, the now and then a little heavy on the now. Here as light touches flesh, footfalls where the imagination once was, the words slip away unfelt. The circle moves slowly, the feeling doesn’t care a thing about the fit.

it could happen to you

I would say the hour approaches, but that’s just the clock playing up it’s purpose. I would decry the hand that’s been dealt, but I gaffed the deck myself. It’s a typical description of a nondescript life, poor choices and bad turns, ignominy and pockets turned inside out. Due dates and remembrances that should be forgotten. I sit with Pixies in a haunted house as animals pace and prowl. I sit with Liz Phair amid debris and detritus, every deck a desertion. The clock breaks the plane of midnight. The hour is now.

The screen is smudged, my glasses are dirty. Somebody ought to see to that, but the impoverishment is on the inside too. Dust and spiders fill the frame. There is a lack of much, there is a dearth of more, there is no there there. The riot act is a litany and all the sooth has been said. Life’s a mystery, so you should start at the end and work backwards. Life’s a sentence and it runs on and on. 

I’m not quite finished, but I am done. I had a third act in mind, but the writing went wrong. Mostly it’s mundane and miserable, and well above my pay grade. Love left on in another room in a cupboard, simple tasks elude my grasp as I pine and bristle, never quite not human enough. A bulb burns behind me, its light sullen and wan. I still have no idea. Not a thought that will profit, not a blessing that will bloom. There is good, and there is beauty. There are multitudes of wonders waiting for the right eyes to find them, all manner of beasts to covet and burden, birthdays that will be celebrated long after my candle has been snuffed. So have a little cake before it happens to you.

onward

All at once it’s only you and the wide open blue, a shunt and a shade in wait of replacement, the numbers only there to paint by. There’s the open window, there’s the climbing pine, there’s the words left behind after the reckoning has been reckoned once the writing has been put down. Reasons and whispers left in letter form, these remaindered oaths and mothballed loves left in books and boxes, some ancient tenders waiting to clout you out of the mists of memory. An exchange of epithets when an epitaph would do. Slings and arrows and all manner of swearing, the stranger there in stark relief.

You strung the noose, you signed the letter, you looked to find satellites in lieu of stars. You know the moon is waning from the mentions in the margins, you know the laundry is washing from the racket of the contraption. Strata of ash and embers curling smoke as the cigarette dangles, an accumulation of intentions sacrificed to fire and blood as the clock winds down. Burdens and blessings trading hats and jackets, some tv mystery playing out there in the thud and wheeze of the heart, dull reactions and worn through promises where your love used to go.

The camera in your head follows the lead, always looking for a clue as entrances become exits, rushing the door as if one more action will solve the case. The mirror holds your gaze as the ghost gives up, listless beneath these mortal sentences, the verdict all that is left of self. Chores and appointments in exchange for the conceit of a soul, motive the first thing to go. A load of laundry to place in the dryer, a dial to turn, a switch to flip. Some last evil to face farther down the line, a horizon further into dust. Something to slip into, something to kick over in the ruckus of the reel.  

diffuse

It is in the angle of the shadow, it is in the sweep of the debris, flights of insects and schools of dust. The earth is tailed by a scintillating ellipsis of particular sects of mote and infinitesimals, these sections of milled infinites stacked like tortoises down below the foundations, logic never able to distinguish between metaphor and matter. Rise and fall a marble turning down the drain, every thought something mixing myth and perception, a hint of memory and a few closed circuits of magic pulsing under the rhythm of the devoted moon and the endless ocean. The waving all wind and limb, the cradle upon the rollick of the precipice, the lion and the lamb always at peace between meals.

So goes the stir in the soil, so goes the turn of the earth, the willful mauling of each mouthful as if the tongue were wing or song. A warbler singing in the sundown crown teaching what it is to warble, all the rest only the education of the guess, the general heft and hue as breath would at once imbue. Oh plea, oh prayer, oh cry in the night—! These are the names and these are the stars, and these are the skies we keep in common. These are the times and these are the trees and there are birds that will remain unseen that know me from sandal to skullcap. Embarrassments abound.

There are bounds, there are markers. The geography lost to the legend, the details missed on the map. Two years dead nearing the dot, the decedent long since flame and scattered ash, long since the labors of the plaited winds and the restless sea. A when to go with the where, this moment that persists in this stir of happenstance and atmosphere, the bone deep steepness of the arc of loss. The sheltered sun scattered through the yard and the imagery, green swaddled branches swaying to the clinging absence as momentum gathers towards more inevitable ends. So it settles, buried beneath the burbling walls of sound and the busy failings of the flesh. Hell forever happy to do its worse, and heaven only as good as your aim. 

the inside is outside too

So the afternoon goes aching on, shoulders heavy from looking at the shape of the sky, some song through the headphones and some song that goes tearing down the block. It’s prop work and physicalizers amid the haze and ash and dirt, sheaves of unruly green tangling around the frame. It’s squirrel biz and bird work and windows that haven’t been washed save by the rain. Roads hedged by mismatched trees down to the last band of bright horizon, until dark clouds lour in bunches against the dense thread count of the gloaming as it weaves. These wants taped to the dithering mirror, these wishes unwinding at the first loose web.

So your breath slips and slides, your body and its wild tides. Earth and water and wildfire, this subtle symphony playing out in the brickwork of the elements, you all caution and chemistry. The night always new, the day finally broken, another scheme fulfilled. The story somehow stalled out in the drive, here we are, still amongst the livid living. We rain down our exclamations and declarative spittle as of this reading, the voyage between moments full of fine print and the unknown. You feel it as it drains away; you feel it come flooding back.

So I kept it inside, out below the night. I kept it clasped tight between heartbeats, down beneath the stars. I left it here where the dust gathers without dust. Where the words return to the dirt of the unspoken, to the furtive nursery inside these bones, the gallery proofs of some dark garden. That seething through the soil, that hint of the myth of self, the stir behind the curtains getting the point. The sun is gone and there’s no tomorrow. The sun returns the same old day. Something someone’s always saying wearing my sworn to skin.

goose eggs

It’s that sort of night, the dusty light hardly trying, and the room ringing out with a seething silence. You left the window and every appetite wide open, an absence comes leaning in, and it looks like a shadow or a screen so you paint it with words and witness. These secrets that will not spill. These secrets that will stay that way. Nothing always short for something as soon as you name it so. A buzz beneath the belabored hush, the meaning right where you put it.

Time stitched to the half lie of gray skies, the thud of prowling music and the strains of vague engines slide along the mind. The glide of headlights briefly barging in, a shuffle among the categories, a haughty reminder of the alphabet quickly slipping out of sight. These secrets inked in balloons of comic strip exclamations, a gleam of abstractions from deep inside the machine lore, the puzzles we put in place from root to bloom. 

There goes the song that seeds it. There’s that sweep of the leaf, the goodbye in the bent of the bough, the sky to flicker cyphers and glim symbols. There’s the recent dint of dreams and the reach of memory when memory has a mission. There’s the length of your boot, the swish of your skirts, the way you warm with the rumors of the rain. The wind adept at the directions past the maps, the light always a little bit too little for arriving so late in the game. There goes the last song leaving, a blessing after all. 

separate

The train wails, and something arrives as it passes. The old ways awake, drawn to the sharp peal of feeling, the placeholder pull of that plaintive cry enough to call out even the doziest of unencumbered appetites. The rails another accelerant, an accumulation of atoms and intent strewn about the long suffering globe, these inadvertent antennae speaking in dialects that gods and ghosts believe belong to them so concrete is the extruded expression. Made up minds making up for lost time, dragging thunder through the cold mountains and haunted hills. 

We are recorded in our lapses and our capacities, the deep ache stamped upon our architecture, a resonance of the distant of our reach. We bleed and spit and devour trailing stain and bone, inducing gravity and scattering our myths across the scenery. The clenched ember, the cold read, matter muttering through palms and fingers. We plead case and cite precedent, knowing how hard we argued out the paint the joinery. Oh to want long past the feeling and the flesh, one hand blind to its opposite. Oh to dream in brick and mortar, in the press of living breath.

This is the napkin note, the envelope sketch. The words meant somehow to resurrect a moment or invoke a notion, the day gone dark as each hunger casts its shadow. A sign left behind like the broken dove savaged by the Cooper’s Hawk, cast down to be consumed by the earth. Every day the stretch of never, the uphill stone. A place spelled just so in the weight of a sentence, a drop of ink into the restless sea. Hands there to fill out pockets, motive put in motion by the sustain of the whistle and the clamor of the tracks, a separate mark to hold each measure.

know your mule

Dip a toe, throw a stone, the water isn’t waiting. Ask for mercy, pray for rain, the work won’t do itself. There’s a shortcut to most how dos, you cross a river by crossing it, the quickest path is the old straight through. The literature is readily available, life lessons and hard time. There are always steps to follow when you’re out blazing trails, bullet points and storyboards and parables galore. Put one foot in front of another on repeat and the rest almost writes itself. The rules you write are so written as you walk and whistle. Offer up and bear down, and hope your back holds out.

I am down here smoking on puzzles I have made of procedures, thinking with grease and embers about treetop mysteries while I serve my residence in the earth. I mumble and drool upon the fleeting phoebes and the fastidious wrens, watching a dark eyed junco attend to a peanut left by the crews of squirrels and the local crow, the collateral always there when you start this sort of conversation. My eyes turn up towards the picked over branches, still bare before the rumors of spring. The architecture of this arrival, time measured in root and reach. The phoebe dives stitching foundation to firmament, the crow in the gutter feasting on motives. 

We wear away our inadequate masks going from op to op and task to task, serving that which is speaking from behind the screen. The vivid predicate and the litany of flesh, taste and appetite and the pause to birth unexpired alibis. We carry our water and daily face our fates, here where the remnants drape the ruins. Here where the words give out and you wake with the sun and follow the stars, where you tie the threads and weave away tomorrow’s tread. Setting forth with your veiled disciples through wood and underbrush you put the moon to use and the sea through its paces. There upon the last penitent period the gravid ambiguity between the vessel and the path.

iteration

Again the wonder wanes, again the symbols slip into the lapse in the contraption rendering the ruins in common tropes and equivocation, the harsh and hollow economy of the hustle and the hop to.  Hands all of a sudden cold and set to trembling, the season setting to with its strict spells and brute cudgels, change and empty pockets provide the shiver and the strive. The spark ever close in this conscription of particles, the seethe of flesh and the shimmer of whet appetite, the inherent conservation of meaning down deep in the stacks. All the ache of this aggrieved meat, freedom always frying pan or fire.

It’s in the atrophy of the apostrophe, the better angels lost to hell working the sins at their seams, the tongue gone numb before you got the taste and now it survives in these notions always being run aground. The script sinks slowly into torpor, no amount of articulation capable of arousing the leaden lyrics left. The terrain so long dead of dreams reason can’t find its purchase in this conscripted alphabet, the cells of the cypher only a west coast ghost, a memory of a masterpiece burned so deep past the brain the images persist from mind to mind and flesh to flesh. 

So this is the shape of the missing pieces, the honeycomb of the mystery amid the cloister of bees, the buzz dubbed in to tune up the inferences through the atmospherics. It is cultured to grow upon the occluded and the occult, imagination giving in multiples, the expected amplitude when the open throttle may only muddle with the unknown. Language the stones and bramble entangled with the lathe of longing, the applied animal and the implied aesthetic tumbling in the dimensions allowed. Whether great art or blessed altar, it takes the suspect form. The road implicit in the path worn before, the ritual just victuals plus time. We come to to the truths they’re using, waking before the words. 

houses in motion

Somehow the sun managed to swim the sky out past sight, the afternoon stippled with screaming children, Paul Simon songs, and crows. Somehow the story, having long since ellipted out, winds up right there at the station ready to replay the whole dull tale again. The wounds of winter hardly healed, and spring comes knocking, unwanted weight and all. Succinct increments and indeterminate eternities, depending on how you adjust the tongue and the air to the carburetor. From every angle they’re going at it blackened bones and blue blazes, you untouched by giddy grace or the angles of alliteration, catching the gist and hitching a ride on the tide of the latest contention. The music fades in and out, the poem right there waiting for you to open your big mouth.

The world weighs in, and mostly the palaver remains unkind. The senses makes sketches as the details endure, the calumny painting over the particular and the impertinent with broad strokes and old chestnuts, the story always overflowing even when it’s on empty. Nothing lasts save the worst and the best, the riddle only ever answered in all the rest. The hills slide away beneath the sky, a wide swath of wishes bubbling beneath the fissile cinematics that hold sway in the everyday. The world wanders away from you if you’re not careful, it forgets your form and face, names you from its myths and nightmares. You turn your head for a second and you are the stranger in the streets.

I’m out here living on the borderlands of the givens, hidden in a shambles of black feathers and old skins. I’m lingering long in the all but gone, trailing smoke and trickling libel. I live mostly alone, a mutter of dogs and sticks and stones, a relic and a remainder unfit for life and whole numbers. A shibboleth of saved receipts and spilled milk laments, a stutter of past cyclones and butterflies fluttering through leftover love language, all extant evidence proof against these claims of poetry and burnt fingers. Life gets spent in the wrong tense, only nows and nevers playing at forever, flies in the window and ashes all down. Shards and silhouettes and the brittle bones of spent regrets, the sun comes for what’s left of my sight, bright horses and fires in the night.

the ache underway

Here it goes, with the murky horizon swallowing up the sky, the first spoonful of the gloaming there among the clouds. Here they comes the whispering of facts and riot acts, the holes in the roof and the unlovely truths. The place past prayers and nightmares, ghosts speaking plainly from their absence and their evidence. The place where the price comes due in shades and flickers, the plate in the microwave, the shards in the trash. The unforeseen collateral and the predictable outcomes there on the floor, the love that ran its course, the ache that’s always there and the ache underway. 

There it is, that long last reach of sunlight, the play of light in the sweep and sway of the pines. The body clenched between everyday arthritics and the bone burden of weather lore, between winds ambivalent to spring and winter, between small scale memories and the stories spilling relentlessly into the long lost. That moment when the orchestra hits that sting from the score, the peal of the big reveal sold whole hearted, eyes wide to the twists and turns of plot plod and bridges burned. Hat in hand, head bowed to the inevitable unforeseen.

Even once the years play out it stays, too close not to leave the occasional mark. The heavy holds court, the colors, the flavors, the clues you should have taken as they seem. The very favor you feel you labor under as much angle and attitude, the blessings unclear below the rubble, the spell lingering in unspoken lies and lives. Time flies as you witness it more and more, the current of clock and calendar a river in a rage. The words don’t want you, and every eventual uninviting becomes a force of the rote, the things done routinely take on the sheen of the norm and the radiance of destiny. A year further on, close enough to burn.

the whole bang and whimper

There you are amid the din, this immediate tide of every returning river another signal on low and high. What is this among the numbers you might say if your the type. This tuning in upon the morsel, this ancient hymn glistening upon the bones of the respite, the whole wide stride of it somehow come to the well tied tongue to symbol and drum. The light there right in your gaze mirror and glass and the immense reflection. The light there in your eyes as you squint and listen. The wish always weighing each consideration, down to blood and equivocation. Right there where what the heart wants is a better warden.

All balled up, sheets and sweat and breath heavy in the dark. The fleeting memory, the shiny teeth of the dream, something livid just behind the moment. There in the reach, names and reasons, some dreadful exposition treading just outside the mind. The nightmare lines all taut in the wheeze and crackle all close up with the shadows in the lungs, the body’s burdens clinging to a bedlam of incorporeal antagonists, bad dream boogie men and the evil astride these ill endings. The thoughts rushing in on waking to another world there in the night.

There’s no telling what you’ll miss, the winds getting their wander on, the crows as they place their orders. It’s the sounds of bells and traffic as another month bleeds by, painted skies and all the harbingers a buzz. That banging on the door that only serves to set the nerves to jangle and the dogs to barking, some tired patter of words the decrescendo to brushback the bother of cold calls and unwanted salvation. Sirens softly doppler out of earshot as the sway of sunlight and pine boughs offers its counsel through the open window while the dogs howl and howl. The inkling mutters beneath the skin, that ever there dread that indulges us little threats and glimmers as the tide comes crashing down. Now and never, the flood and fold of this desolate forever, that moment before you blink. 

the dope

Here below a single lit bulb the shadows lie still while the walls tremble with the laden weight of countless freight cars going through town somewhere out in the night, distant clatter a broken rhyme for the grime and clutter, books and props and clustered wads of intentions left to drift and die. All the wisdom left here just spittle dribbling down grizzled barbs, the ring around rhyme played out, only dust and downfall sticking around for the postscript. Every instinct left is tooth and fist, gnawed on scenery and oration aimed at the cheap seats. Like a late twentieth century clock, the illness blinks on and off and on and off since blackouts became the rule and exceptions found another pate to crown. The pretense there only to serve another shoddy plot, the room read down to the appendices.

The ceiling blurs and blends, a thatch work of smoke, breath, and regret. There the consolation of light’s limitations, a wan halo, the long reach into the deeper dark. That steep descent that Duchamp nude takes behind the peal of the paint, the room ringing out in the wear of the era, the heritable swaths like the rows laid by belt in the muffled hues hewn by time and dues owed to dirt. Myths borne by weary fictions and a mattress on the floor. Radiance and radio waves, aches bathed in blue bias light. The memory fades as it becomes more certain, scripture taken as gospel, the gasping of a carp writhing in surprise upon the rough sands of its sudden ascension.

There goes the day, sky blue sky and bright sun and all that sort of meshugaas, as one orients the order of these origins. The eyes opening to the light escaping from the curtains, the raven call among the usual gang of crows, that spark into this earnest remark. Dogs lazing with the stretch of the afternoon, dust ensorceled by the slow reach of the stars long game, this looming now commanding every available attention. A recorded voice reports treading water amid the flood of other tones and tongues, beneath the rumble of the league of machines, a truth easily reaching all it needs. The one thing, then the next, just as prophesied. This tumble through the lines that reach from the sky through kites of chiton, that reach in leaning teeters of rusted capacitors and hanging cables, from the feathers to the fence. The barely measured favor to await the next breath.

spark and spigot

The spine speaks in crimes not in infractions, it leaves it to the other bones and organs to indulge their gripes and litanies. Don’t even get it started on that crybaby skin. It bends, it breaks, it regulates tensions and lays telegraph lines through the torso and up to the brain bowl. It speaks in augury and prophecy and allotted outlays for infrastructural recovery. More often than not it’s called a Cassandra for it’s plain spoken declarations, the allusion as usual emptied of the detail that Cassandra was right.

The earth too doesn’t dally away the day with riddles. It’s an old brick and mortar operation that isn’t going anywhere. The deadpan crack of cold hard facts, the stick and stone tome read all alone, bruise and pang that arise despite the wishful objection of that gray mule mind. Every insipid ghost whispers blasphemes and blisters with the body bearing the brunt. Those faded shades only embers of glimmers, adding afterlife to afterlife the as if improv show species breaking boughs and bones as it ascends to apogee enough to assure a fall splendid enough to act as earth’s answer to the miracle covenant. 

So the body bruises and squelches and pisses away it’s existence, revisiting the old myths and histories, reviewing the tape and revising the rules. They whittle away at chemical compounds making sign and alphabets, stacking stones and making circles, writing their reasons after the impulse and the consequence makes them need to explain. They drill spells through their skulls to insure the direction of the gaze, building mazes out in the open, making puzzles out in plain sight. It goes like that from spark to spigot, a fire and a flow and a long night where no one is ready to face the certainty of their dreams. 

another name to know

Outside my window there are birds and branches. Sparrows and finches busy in pine boughs, songs and burbles and a springing of squirrel. The day drawls on as the old wound weeps into sock and slipper, always a reaching between earth and root, this music stippled with want and star traveling from was to are. The muted sun casts winter shadows, a brightness ringing into aches and gray pauses. Restless memories and an artless heart, this simple drifting into dark.

The day drags its conceits and glad bags, it scrapes the driveway and scuffs its rims on the curb. The road rises but the tide goes higher. Thoughts turn to a relentless river, ruinous and cruel. Rain reckoned for later and the roof already riddled with surrender, my heart is bullet starved, my blues blackened gunmetal. In the nation of gun plenty still so many hurdles and murders, the self a sickness raining in hapless peals of fire and phosphorus down on strangers, kin to a people that think there’s safety in strangers’ corpses buried in rubble. Too many years wrought with no reasons, too many flashing fangs pretending at faith to be won over with lies and prizes now. 

There were words I thought I needed to write, things that need saying. I’m sure they still need saying, but they don’t need me as mouthpiece or amanuensis. So no summaries, no famous lasts, just empty conceits and full ashtrays. A beggar’s bowl of attitude and euphemisms, rags and tatters my only flag. I’ll spend my final coughs and spasms feeding birds and beasts and maybe spreading something more than mayhem and woe. No wiser for the wear and tear, merely aware of the enduring, obdurate foolishness of my crummy existence. No ellipsis or trailing off, no motto for the meat, no epitaph for the mass. There for a while, then gone with all the good.

tempest tossed

The bird of breath has fled its cage I think, leaning forward on the rocking chair coughing, seeing stars towards the edge of the precipice. It’s an ordinary night, all sirens and storms and drizzly little deaths sprawled across the scenery, the wheeze in the machinery sounding louder than the passing train. The gutters fizzle with deadfall and star spotted wishes. The streets sing with tires and declarative engines, our mystery firmly rooted in the filters and the findings, the amplified environment lit with Dopplering water. The shape of witness and the world that fills it. 

The rooms are always ringing, sometimes with silence, sometimes with sadness. It varies by the hour. The surety of shelter so conditional when the weather puts its weight to the wheel. The story ever ready to take a left turn. A freeze, a flood, an odd sort of feeling to the colors of the sky. Coin toss physics decided by gust or gale, misread significance as destiny dishes it out with both fists. A song comes on and you can feel the room turn. A few short words you can’t quite hear over the bathroom fan. That Barton Fink feeling when staring down the drain.

It’s soft momentarily, the water steaming, the shower effortless and persistent. Routine and ritual in a small noisy room, the comfort of familiar ablutions and the aspect of ten thousand actions escaping through the plumbing. I soap up, I spray and scrub, I rinse. I shave my throat then my head, moving left to right and front to back. Then the toweling off and dressing the latest wound, there is the ambience of fogged mirrors and another song, the crawling rumor of the living in stray webs and small heaps. This eye wide, then another opened door.