Comes to the lay of the day I declaim the decline smack in the countenance, the sun leaning hard against the west, eyes crinkled with age and smoke and shine as I trail symbols on ley line minds. The drowse and the drift, mercilessly incarnate within the relentless mechanisms that keep time, the countdown and the alarm work their teeth like charms. I slouch and I spit and I smoke, I sit out amid the discord taking the season at its pace. Dogs bark and geese retort on the wing, dopplering along their character arcs. The busy sound of a lonesome law laid down hard enough to jar the bones, this life all lit wrong and epigenitically askew. Writing wrong about all I do.
That’s just it. Somewhere, some song, some cryptic inference or skip rope rhyme. Maybe a devil’s worth of details, the albedo from passing traffic, the fleeting glimpse of a passing profile recalling a flood of avaricious touch. A procedural of grand conceits and farcical predictability, customary idioms and the faint press of the familiar, some odd knot of bewilderment and playing to the cheap seats. The revelation always some inevitable unraveling, all roads leading every which way but loose. Clinton Eastwood and an orangutan and Eddie Rabbit there as if invoked, ghosts of the unwinding clock, until all that was is glimmers and gibberish. Irrelevant ramblings drooled down the beard of some dead end old man, fragments of tablets and graffito hieroglyphics, yesterday’s long twilight in what’s been done with a rundown tongue.
I suppose this is the trailing off, the long ellipsis, that last expletive left to the imagination. Dashes and interrobangs and the pretty little bows of these drawn out epilogues. The wait and the witness, the Achilles heel need to see the forest in each tree, the blunt dumb fisticuffs of the struggle to say what you meant. The limitations everyone knows that casts me as fool and heretic, the brick walls I won’t take at their word have shaped me to the worlds hard passes, the convolutions that are my gospel alone. One day the words that will serve as my epitaph will pass onto this page and into these inconceivable seas of legions, more power drawn and carbon vomited into posterity for some bottle thrown into the vast last indifference. Some primate charge among the branches, a beating of the chest, the aftermath of the enemy I could never best.