Deep in the black dog bandwidth, smoke and wind and the way they placed the gravity heavily laden upon my frame and grace. I hang my head, watching the flight plans of porch flies adjust their geometries, some shared frequency there in the calculations. Lawn mowers sound out above the rush of the air and all the shared genres of song, bass line thump and weed whacker whine sandwiching the stray octaves. Nowhere to go and I long to be gone. Welcome nowhere now that there’s nothing I can be but me.
Impatient amid the scintillations, I still until I stray from the cooling winds and swaying tree limbs, the mind always ready to buck the harness and head for the fences. The bones report their same complaints, the sky comes falling down, but memory and the moment never stop tussling away. It’s the same old boards, the same backdrops, the seaside docks and cityscapes in calm suspension up the fly gallery. The same old hack hamming it up on script and off, the terminal condition of this spent discourse. Selling the same sad fruit and trampled flowers, the sign at the intersection held by some ragged figure asking too much.
I don’t often know what I know, but I typically do what I do. I tack something stable once I figure out its axis, I like to know when to stir up the dust or to shuffle off to Buffalo. I am down to spare parts and dark arts, spending tomorrows and spinning gears to move the carcass from collapse to collapse. I fill the cups, I break the chains, I wake up to the same boulder waiting at the bottom the same hill. We top off the clockwork and spend the rest on frippery and magic spells, and prayers to faithless gods. Going nowhere except back to the B-side. Tomorrow or bust.
