Yet another day, the front porch spilling smoke into the shifting afternoon, dogs barking and the music plays on with the show. The wounds and the wear even worse than it looks, this old campaign all carcass and guff. The inevitable seems to still, some event horizon cognition trick, and you fall forever in the flicker of a leaf. Bearing the brunt of dull curse and bright blessing I stall, blood failing as the ghost goes spilling over the sides. The road rises to meet you and then some, another clout for flinching, I collapse into my latest frailties. Spending days soaking in burning gloom, nursing the latest flaw in my cognation. I hear the long call even spent and ruined. I hear the call.
All wrong turns and enduring regrets the day plays out, the house and the habits having had their say, only the wind and the sky left to linger. So it is that we find the low leaves in a shimmer, towed into novelty and motion as it all falls, the touch of sun in the spectrum of the most grievous scintillation. The familiar brush of something in the shuffle, alone in the stimula as the grip of the familiar tightens around the myth, the story always champing at the bit. I slump under the boundless stretch of the inferential majesty, aflame in all the unpleasantness of this endurance. Whatever our luck, whatever our strengths, we can’t outlast the continuity. I smoke what I got as the song carries on.
The quiet earth is cursed with voices. The blazing core, the burbling rock. The teeming grunts and squeakings of the innumerable multitudes. A fool can be forgiven for hearing some steaming jet gossip on by and taking it personal once in bygone blue. The work becomes its own truth however the words may turn. Useless past delusion the day comes due, however I phrase the devil or doom. The call goes on, though it doesn’t mean you. The answer is all you ever had, whatever or whoever was meant. There is ever a sparrow falling.