Ducks in a row, all our lives. Ducks in a row, all these trembling little victories, all these soft, breathy sounds of defeat. All the bottles lined up in the mind, the check list of incompletion awaiting the pen stroke, the bright ring the bell to birth it. The lush multiplicity of existence, to be broken, to be beaten, to be without recourse, and yet to still feel the resonance of that fresh bell. The gilded victory chime that shapes fresh souls even as flowers wilt and flesh fails. That small comfort nested in this bouquet of small comforts, the fault line that split this life separate, distinct from many others. Fed, sheltered, with a warm bed and cool water, alive in this implicit ruin, watching the treasure of potential alight in the distance. Tomorrow coming though it can not ever be, today that artful sustain, the dissolution of happenstance and hope, that residual flavor time leaves lingering in the shop window of memory. In the train window of memory, all our reasons flashing past, along these long, always diminishing tracks.
These traces shine like moonlit rails, like the rows water droplets make upon the window of this unlit kitchen on a night caressed by rain. An aria sung as I am typing, the brief suspense of spell check, and then the song changes. Between what I wait for, and what will be. Between my plans and all the worlds staggering actions. Between the work of want and the trespass of wish, all of this happens. Nearly three weeks out of work, the driver who hit me might not have been insured, the money all but run out, no doctor, no lawyer, no Indian Chief. Just bourbon and music and the magic of letting go. A joyful ringing between the seams of this made up world of all these big tomorrows, the limpid fictions of law and country and finance tasting a little better despite the fact that maybe all of it is going to just miss me. Happy for this sea of strangers happiness, hopeful for their hopefulness, awash in these drizzles and aches.
It feels pointless, it feels as if my uselessness has finally come to a head, but something inside me knows I have felt this way before. Besides, there are still things to do. Animals to feed, lines to fill in on forms to fill out. Doctors to see and lawyers to seek, arguments full of latin candor and miserable invective. Books I have yet to read, nights I have yet to curse, fights I have yet to lose. Losing love, losing hope, losing the impulse to even try is not losing everything. It is a grubby, empty, miracle, this life. Fed by brutality and earnestness, and sacrifice-- and we ease the harm of these only by the statistical wisdom of our abhorrent good will. The work surpasses me, just as the urge to work, and the ability to work did years ago. But the work is here, this world, this moment. All the rain and discontent and imaginary tides contingent upon this conceit. That this moment is all there is, and the most must be made from something. This moment is as good as anything else that is or is not. Lined up, shot down, whichever trick takes, whichever hand is held, we play what is dealt. And when our turn comes up, we deal or fold. Whatever turn arises, in whatever game we think we play.
These traces shine like moonlit rails, like the rows water droplets make upon the window of this unlit kitchen on a night caressed by rain. An aria sung as I am typing, the brief suspense of spell check, and then the song changes. Between what I wait for, and what will be. Between my plans and all the worlds staggering actions. Between the work of want and the trespass of wish, all of this happens. Nearly three weeks out of work, the driver who hit me might not have been insured, the money all but run out, no doctor, no lawyer, no Indian Chief. Just bourbon and music and the magic of letting go. A joyful ringing between the seams of this made up world of all these big tomorrows, the limpid fictions of law and country and finance tasting a little better despite the fact that maybe all of it is going to just miss me. Happy for this sea of strangers happiness, hopeful for their hopefulness, awash in these drizzles and aches.
It feels pointless, it feels as if my uselessness has finally come to a head, but something inside me knows I have felt this way before. Besides, there are still things to do. Animals to feed, lines to fill in on forms to fill out. Doctors to see and lawyers to seek, arguments full of latin candor and miserable invective. Books I have yet to read, nights I have yet to curse, fights I have yet to lose. Losing love, losing hope, losing the impulse to even try is not losing everything. It is a grubby, empty, miracle, this life. Fed by brutality and earnestness, and sacrifice-- and we ease the harm of these only by the statistical wisdom of our abhorrent good will. The work surpasses me, just as the urge to work, and the ability to work did years ago. But the work is here, this world, this moment. All the rain and discontent and imaginary tides contingent upon this conceit. That this moment is all there is, and the most must be made from something. This moment is as good as anything else that is or is not. Lined up, shot down, whichever trick takes, whichever hand is held, we play what is dealt. And when our turn comes up, we deal or fold. Whatever turn arises, in whatever game we think we play.
VIEW 3 of 3 COMMENTS
nahp:
hey thx for your comment on my set
kraven:
Hahahah I wouldnt let you drown.... hahahh Thanks for the super well thought out comment and it is so nice that you took the time to not only look at the set but to leave it your opinions... I appricaite it. Have a great weekend!