new moon mantra

The sky above is blue and blurry with floaters and figments, the cheap cheaters smudged with the devil’s work, the new moon monstrous in its absence. Eyesight and vision often take separate trains, tracks crossing traffic clanging away in intermittent flashings and the side just short of hooroar. The given inch falling fathoms further in low effrontery, audacity pairing so frequently with the self declared self aware. The nations continue to insist on these defamations, the obvious lack inherently enraging. The uttered intentions caught in the wind, dribbled down meanings chin, a completed rotation around the sense to so much sentience. The curse closes around the desperate ink, the blessing spread like dandelion seed, buoyancy the confederate of geometry. Confession yet another consequence of gravity.

The crow calls late in the day, its cries cast with the stretch of shadows, with the spring of the evergreen ringing in the follow through. That corner of the mind where the paint never dries always peeking out from the unfinished edges, the circumspection of the unfocused familiar, these observant strangers serving tea from behind the blinders. The known amounts to less than the observable, these obdurate forms that linger in the vast occlusion, the blazing blind light that threatens to reveal the unfleshed aspects that bump and grind in thoughts unfettered. That coarse throat aiming at the assembly of kin and kind harkening still unknown marching orders, spilled tea and grievances and the map to the evening’s roost, all of the possible furtive in these great heaps of ignorance that serve as the world.

Lurking there in eternal nativity the shadows root and reach through the mumbling foundations, on through the blaze blue and maw red into this weary rally of roof and brick and bone and leaf. The cup is filled and emptied and spilled, cracked and reformed and filled to the brim yet again. The whole thing sheaves of the same ol same ol writhing and wrapping around the new, eyes aging out of the thousand yard stare, items thick with the dust of dead cognition braying out fresh intentionalities. All hat and no rabbit sings the hungry earth, the hearth only so much stone and mortar when the fire stays extinguished. All sizzle and no steak the song that hell has habituated in these parched hearts, as this unconditional surrender has its say. As in heaven, so in the hooks. The empty pantry has its fill of flatware, the set table a bounty of bowls and plates. The window remains ready to receive the moon.