This is the history of the entity. This is the story of the smoke. Aglow in the ambient and the albedo, from the shine to the surface, from the ember the ash. Time is another thread of the essence, all double stitched through our dimensions, the resonant vibrations of our shaky seeming selfs. I speak aloud in idle hands and dirty work, in the rattle of trash bins and the sound of glass that’s had it, in these scintillations of ephemera that brush against your skin. Half bled out half exasperation this press of held tongue and sealed lips, the assembly of sticks and dashes into the affinity of a kiss. The flame and the carried torch.

It’s in the way the night encroaches, the porch light orange and the screen door silhouettes, the sway of shadows and the business of the dark. The street sounding out and the gutters cluttered with sticks and stones, the jet engines overheard and the lowdown of the all alone. I ache and sway, and stumble over my own too certain stride, I gleam and glide and always find the right crossroads to collide. The sound of darkened steps and lights left burning, a tale of windows lit and unlit. The stare and the implication, the chair and the television, parked cars and proximity lights. The body global, the ghost local, the mystery a lot of crossed wires and mixed signals.

Here we are with the music playing. Here we are with the lights down low. This moment and it’s reception. The translation from room to room and flesh to flesh, the combo racing up the scales teasing out the melody while calling out the beast. This flicker of tongue and lip, a dry breath, the sound of an engine idling. Silky smoke and weathered flesh, the skull and sinus toned voice as I sing along, the fit and the features and the endless fusillade. These are the words I strung and strummed, animal and entity, lonesome and lust thick and ringing into the ether. This is the reaching beyond the touch, the intimacy of transmission, the propriety of the switch. The things I say when you read me.