Here I am again, the altar of god’s last ulcer. Here I am still smoking in the rain. The old words made of wolves and wood and the elders stirring the embers of the stars. The old words only seedlings, sewn of Babel and sea salt and the passage through the burning sands. The breath is always rushing off, the tongue always playing catch up. The imparted art and the compelled spell racing through your veins, dancing like iron shavings dragged by magnets. The aura and the appetite sealed in knots of craft and promise. The magic another sunset in the rain.
One by one the colors wander, each hue fades in shades beneath the looming blanket of the growing grays. The porch light pushing shadows into the mud, the dusk gaining a little with every breath, drawing down the night and blowing away the day. The cold seeps down into the bones, the ache from wrist to elbow, the season always telling it like it is. I work the wheel, I wear my will, the biting teeth of the gears of ancient engines. The fingers bitten through the gloves, the ringing of the reach, the play of pitch and froth in the key of being. Sealed in sets of symbols and epochs down in the depths, the ring around rosies and the word right out your mouth.
Beneath the waves of pouring rain, below the shining tide of stars, we are always out to sea. Alter the rate of exchange, peel some ions from the elements, change directions of these sparks and spins. You are the kernel of your craft. You beyond the boundaries of your art. I still and stir and seal the secret with a kiss. 70 thousand years without enough pockets, 70 thousand years always in the last place you looked. The creator’s breath awakened in the earth, the spirit instilled by this sea of blood and sky, the rain preaching in song and scent. This circuit of ashes, this clay so squeezed and scorched. Here I am, another wanderer on sabbatical. Here I am, an unwanted waste in the amber of imagination.