Another warm and windy day beneath a blue bias sky, the frame of sameness seeding the myth of continuity, the place dissolving into stubborn names and entropy. An eye for envy and trouble with the plot. The long cons weight the sway of the lie, that described horizon where you going to long at last, the quick patch of the syllables torn clean from cognitions. We are largely plug and play, all feelings and appetites trapped to a framework bound to deceive. Moved by weightless words, we can be anyone’s anything. Nothing but a change in the meaning of meaning. Only a mark on a map.
The words are always shifting, always slippery, the collapse of a sand dune a question answered. We anchor a lot onto them, considering. There as they derelict we keep throwing more words in the wake. Only the words win. We either spin ourselves compellingly or plummet to the earth, every claim the Coyote walking off the cliff. So I spin a little and fall. The egress mostly paintings on solid stone. The rest the ghosts that won’t leave you alone.
The world goes ahead and shuffles the deck, the weight of blue sky and crow shadow, the turns taken and passes played. Doves pivot and trees sway, a trembling between dance and prayer, a passing truck’s cruel window glare. Soft eyes and the kiss of chrome, one side of a conversation caught in the wind, the swarms of the air and the legions of the earth. Moving from ache to ache, from hollowed ritual to hollowed ritual, living in the empty words that abandoned all meaning. The power of memory another slow burial. The tomb of this meter of life and limb scribbled and denied. Sooner or later, the mountain tracks you down.