Once it starts to go, it goes slow, then all at once. The glow of the sunken sun, the deepening of the rush of dusk. It’s already dark, though it’s been darker. It’s growing cold, but it’s been colder. Stiff limbed and limp dicked, the husk stumbles and staggers, what humble strength there was spent among the earth and gravel. A misused marionette, awkward and without intent, always close to collapse. Dragging ruined blood and dead flesh in these foolish, shaky circles. The routine of light and lock and shovel more uncertain everyday. The blind dog staggers and spills, gathering indignities, heading towards the end.
Swaddled in colored cotton and polyester blends I feel the rotation of the earth and the turning of the wheel. The mundane fire and fear of sudden sharp pains and chronic aches, the bad hip becoming the bad leg, the busted toe and the open wound becoming another limb lost. Mood swings and common core madness feed these foolish failings, too poor to get treatment, too crazy to adequately make my case by filling in the blanks. I’ve never been able to explain myself to doctors or bureaucrats, never been at anything more than one third power during daylight hours. The things I want and the things I need either elude me or come in not nearly enoughs. So I have resigned myself to this dumb slow death, wishing it wouldn’t hurt so much, or at least that it would get on to the dying part a whole lot sooner. But you’ve probably met wishes before.
The horizon still glows a gray blue hue as the sky inks in the night. Covetous shadows grasp and cling, dripping from the trees, shoving up against the limits of these feeble electric lights. The cats begin to pace their beats, and the moon again rises above it all. Car alarms contend with traffic and dopplering bass lines amid the ruckus of the coming dark. Windows gone blind from inside lights stare out at the once and future roads, awaiting travelers to transform them from asphalt and concrete. Bowie is singing Changes though he’s been dead for years, and there’s nothing left in me that wants to sing along. I sing just the same. Nothing but words on a screen and a bitter, spat out name.