Put your kings back in their cubbyholes, hang your gods out in the garden. Kick your faith off its pedestal, know your way is a course of water down a slope. Here in this passing fancy, in the pained turn of the day to day, we find our way. From just desserts to devout pursuits, the circuit to the drain consumes us all. Written as if rules the inevitable again and again, wrung hands and gossiping flesh, the moment full of such certitude collapsed into tumbling photon and a flicker in the feels. Oh, such sorrow! Oh, such beauty! We post our apostrophes, we roll them bones.
The lighter sparks then it ignites, a flash of light and heat below my right eye. Almost at once the smoke heads towards the heavens, the restless winds not offering a lot of options. I burn a knuckle on the blazing ember of the cigar butt, another small offering to the improbable unknown, smoke sent east while the sun sinks west. I ease back into my habitual station, spine and eyes effecting the ritual, longing and the heat loss of the complimentary. Something holy in the dance around the empty, the hollow of the vessel ringing through the whole.
I serve the ashtrays and the negative space of sky and branch, I serve the dirt and the hungry creeping legions that abound. This starved soil, this blasphemous destruction of the building blocks of soul, while we feed ourselves words glutted on words. The tumble of these unseen axes, the animal loosed in every revelation, our ferocious trajectories and our determined dooms. More and more my eyes are fixed upon ghosts and games, the long con entangled in our chains. Species spent in fits of pique and power, the top down desolation another destiny imparted from our suspiciously absent gods as we stack the odds against ourselves. My heart beats for our desperate bids for life and beauty. A light left on, a tithe for all the asking.