This day is stuffed with straw. This day is built brick by brick, the sun and the rhythm of the lost path. It seems pretty dumb, but it knows what it’s doing. Shadows fill the landscape with bright birds and blue ghosts, children screech and play as the burning world goes gray. The words come along the way words occur, in fits and starts and telegraphed nods to art. Feast or famine, bounty by the bushel or the ramekin. Mouths full of syllables, mostly missing what they mean.
To be honest, there’s not much asking left of me. There’s nothing much past vague longings and tangible threats inside my heart. The last stack took a lot out of me, and there wasn’t much there to begin with. Just this pathetic urge to scribble something on the walls of the cave. A note scribbled upon the walls of the asylum, a message in a bottle hurled into the rage an rollick of the open ocean. This year I lost my last confidant and got schooled again about things I keep not learning. This is whatever is left, the shape of a hand in bone blown ochre, a flag planted on the moon. Some stupid conceit left to say where I was when the gone caught up with me.
The lungs strain on, thick in patches with fluids and phlegm, the heart sore from the uphill trot. The colors sweep the sky as the street cools and turns towards the deeper palette, the broken notions of the bandwidth while the twilight wanders through. I plunder the lexicon and body every definition, clumsy and impatient and ready to pummel and clout enemy and interloper alike. Instead I beat my knuckles bloody against some innocent post, my life just the pocket change of a sacrifice made too many years ago. Not a man, not a person, not even an entity with any reckoning in the fleshed out forms. A set of loose limbed abstractions left in the dashed off magic of math and servile sparks, a bunch of written down tears and wrong turns trailed by a name that is never said and hard to remember.