It’s one of those everyday feels, neither head nor heart in it, the old one two and the back catalogue. The ritual and the checklist, the points and the spread, the bump and grind of empty order. How easily we automate, how often it is only leaf and wind, a bag askance in that Katy Perry song. The skin scuffed and sunken, the husk moving through the aspects of the motions, thoughts another faraway. From day to day and door to door, we are parted from the start. The earthbound heart and the head that yonder star.
It is a puzzle, it is a pattern. The bump and grind and the squeaky wheel, the place where the world departs, stripped and pinned declaims the skin as dreams and art unite. The body only placeholder as the fire burns in tides, words turn the tongue like worms turn this graceless clay. The lover, the family, the elusive daily deity crowding out your table. The thoughts you’re thinking on while the motions move through. The ones you were wishing were wishing on you.
There’s a hitch for most any wagon. There’s a rhythm there for stepping in, a number for your feet. Somehow there’s a deal to seal, somehow there’s a ribbon to cut. The rumble of the motorcycle, the roar of the down bound jet. Out away from all the bother, permanently unburdened of the fuss. The blind dog licking at your shins, your back to the setting sun. Dusk arrives and somehow is someone.
