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memoir

The day winds down, the night is loosed-- something seems a bit familiar. Outside the wind clatters, the voice of the atmosphere, the reach of the sky. I know I have seen this before. The depth of shadow, the thrust of cement. The roads that run and run. Maybe it's only me, but I am pretty sure I have done this to death.

The...
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Saturday, Sunday

I'd like to say it began with the rain, but that would be skipping ahead. I'd like to say that all this looking back followed a path, went from incident to incident in a slow meandering stroll. Instead it was me sitting outside, Saturday trending cold and gray, smoking a cheap cigar, reading a very good book. Rain was forecast for the evening,...
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dissolution

Blessed is the morning star, lit with myth and circumstance. Blessed is the sharpened sickle moon, hanging like threat above the sleeping trees. Blessed is the raccoon clatter and the dog alarms. The bare limbs of trees reaching towards the next season, caught in the diffuse light of vigilance. The police prowl and the addict roll, the street filled and emptied again and again....
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venom:
thaanks!
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gray world

The gray world endures the worst of us, our rages and calamities, our speed and weakness. All fog arising from the icy earth, all cloud cover and blind-eye sun. The ragged hills are hidden and the whole world ends just beyond the reach of our headlights' reach. The chill takes me by the shoulders, and everything is in swift decline.

The job is...
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the world without you

I end my day much as I began it, behind the weather, my bones a song. The slow creep of icy fog, the otherworldly glow of a shrouded sun. I dragged along, strung on words and will. My thoughts all snips and shreds, my mood a little colder than blue murder. Another series of little slips and deadpan failures. Another day...
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the break

Up too early by hours, the fog is there already. The world sunken in vapor, swaddled in mists. The slubby fit of water condensing on tree limb and exposed steel, the sound of a troubled faucet trickling away your sleep. I pick up the paper, wrapped and ready for the intransigencies of the weather. Cool damp plastic, the curled up contentment of this...
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bone

Night ebbs in the darkest moments, etched in the these myths and frailties. The fault-line obsessions, those trembling edges. That hint of yearning crafted from the precipice, the rough endings, those unknown depths. Cold water swallowed in gulps at the extinction of that cosy dream. Warm air swallowed in gasps, the waking world somehow always so demanding. This is that hour, blunt and enduring....
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touch

Rust and dust and cracked cement. Our particular music, all fingers and frets. Our typical song, callused kisses up and down the neck. The moon sinks into pools of stars, nothing left to jump or fall. Fences made of chains, fences made of splinters, midnight just leaning against the eaves. Every lock slides and clacks, every door huddling in its frame. Our usual tune...
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sleep it off

Don't let the world in, let the bed stay warm and the cat sleep on. Don't venture out into the cool blue light, with the sun awake and in everyone's business. Don't check your messages or answer the phone. No good can come from any of it. Sleep in for another couple of dreams. Sleep in and see if waking makes anything...
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bend and burn

The garage door crinkles just a little once the wind blows correct. The lights flicker, strung along the ceiling above smoke and dirty cement. Cracks and dust, the cacophony of ash that we must make each stride. The fire always slung in some direction, abiding by some axis, the wheels all spinning true. Burn in or out, burn up or down. It...
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ink

The calendar empties out, a day then a day and then another. There is nothing there. Scraps of paper, heaps of numbers. Dust and the rigor of dreams, the sunken surety of ink. Word after word after hollow word. The wind picks up and gnaws upon the moon. The swaying trees, the sound of sirens drifting off.

There isn't room enough, all of these...
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more moon

We slowly dissolve, just trees and moonlight. The pale slab of sky, the dense hush of earth. We all but whisper away, driven by the thrill of cold air on warm flesh. We all but boil down to bones, awake and adrift in all this empty. Something in the story of a razor and tap water. A scraping of the face, the steam...
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