The sun burns on despite the gathered clouds and the angle of the incline. We orbit and we spin and act like we did something. We hurl these words like joke shop smoke bombs for cover as we flee. Our hurts and hungers flung wildly around us, trade in blame by the say so, as we fall frame by frame. Here to move the matter around, we still have to mouth off about it. Here to seed the future, we cling to ancient alibis and fables long gone to dust. We fall east and see the sun disappearing into the west. Things are even upside down in our eyes. Who would even ask us, knowing what we’re like?
I miss most everything. I likely wouldn’t even look unless it was a ruckus being raised. If I read it, I’m probably sorry I did. I watch what I watch, the focus also a filter. The small worlds dying all around us. The mistaking of words for work. The moments lost to smoke, the moments granted by it. Breathing is burning, being is burning, alive and your fuse lit. It’s happening all at once, and you’ll never keep a clue you catch. Tires squeal, engines rumble, the calico queen of the night jumps from a pine bough to the roof. The crows call assembly, sharp tongued echoes across the dimming sky. The rise of sudden sparrows. The silence clinging to their wake.
The path you took becomes dead ended. The story arc well past the denouement, the ensemble either fair welled or planted in the ground, shadows falling like ripe fruit all around. I don’t know where it hurts, but I hope something kisses it better. I don’t know what wounds stayed open, but you find whatever’s good for what ails you. More and more it is to ease the endings. More and more it is hold the line. The hard times are fast upon us. It’s the open stance and the offered hand, help however it goes. More smoke and symbols for the deepening night.
