It lines up along the impulses, ought or naught unto eternity, the utility of the dance of opposites. It is the tongue of flesh and the tongue of fire, these analogs of hunger, these waves of want and wish. The twinkling of machine inklings pitching woo with the entanglement of language, thoughts like stars dancing upon the midnight tides. Perception directed with intimacy and audacity as the wheel turns and turns. This life a fuse offered up to one blazing now, the missed moment always seen by the spark of its immediate extinction. The pride of punctuation, phrase taking and homespun idolatries. The wisdom leaning witless into the halted existence, wantonly pawing at null sets and snuffed singularities.
It is there in the cold in my fingers, the dwindling there in my grasp, the blood slowly gives up the fight. The tattered ends of the tapestry, our resplendent escapes into the sea of genes cut short for the organism, those missed connections and social deficits adding up to a map of eternity. Life lives to fight another day, those fated to end up smashed upon the grill not missed one but. I smoke these heavy metaphors, full of despair and attrition as my number comes up.
Another strange rain, the climate changing spots as it goes. A crow explores a plastic bag abandoned on the curb. Traffic passes shushing home on slickened streets. My hands burn to their aching bones, the animal frailty of my day to day ferocious and unyielding. Under whatever sky suffices, beneath any looming brunt, the countdown never relents. The beauty of black wings and street side appetites, the toil of mind and time, the magic of never knowing and never being enough. The mystery means to keep you missing, rapt and ecstatic staring holes through the waxing moon. The number of the loosed breath, the number of the journey’s end, wedded with hungry belly and empty hands a symbol you can only not know.
