It’s the sort of sunset that gets the bones to mumbling. It’s the sort of twilight that unhinges the jaws of the heart. Who knows who’s listening, who knows what’ll finally be enough to choke on? The day goes from show to tell, the uncanny and the ne’er do well slowly assemble their infernal internals, they take their trade in specie and in flesh. The body sings its same old song, missing meals and kisses, counting stars by the way they fall. The hunger takes it by the hinges, the heart all sweep and swallow. The horizon glows at the sovereigns passing, waiting for the night to take the helm.
It’s built into the machinery, it’s written into the routine. I ante up even if I’m not playing the hand. I’m the best there is at what I do, but what I do isn’t much. I’m the best there is at what I do, but I’m even better at what I don’t. I sit as still as the local physics allow. I sit lookout through the changing of the guard. I keep the fire burning in my blood, I keep the ashtrays full. The work to the wheel to go with the motion. The work to the words to slip the reins. The world squandering light as the gloaming leaves its last.
The words turn over, soil to the spade. It’s not a lot of work, but it’s always shovel ready. Mostly it’s where I put my empty. It’s a place to go when the lonesome takes hold hard. All these years and roads lost in this senescent husk, nothing but the mumbling of old bones, grit and grease and little release. So you feel your way through fit and fever, shorn of blood and skin, all wings and will and sin. These caperings and incantations, all whispers awaiting flesh. The world turns terminal, these voices in the speechless dark waiting for someone to breathe.