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.
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