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.
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