The day is just like that, the crush of dawn, the bird revival. The day is just that way, nothing to gain, nothing to swear. Morning comes to everyone that’s still around to lump it. The day just wastes the time away, the stretch of the sky, the ache of the earth. One dizzy rush to the next, ecstasy and perdition and all the bandwidths...
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You say goodbye to the messianic sky, the bygone blues, the gray and laden clouds. You say goodbye to the books and baubles of the shelf. Rifle through the boxes, turn every pocket inside out, put aside the labors you owe to ghosts as you wander these avenues of the labyrinth. No one answer will ever do. Every traveler down the same shared path has...
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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...
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The day is slowly sinking into the strata, the bashful blue sky soaking up the sun, spring tumbling head over heels from root to shoot. Something for the shine, something for the smolder, something for the memory of the match. From scorched fingers from playing with fire to the cold bones dragged through the depths of the atmosphere, this form rings with songs and ghosts....
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Two in the morning it’s all train wails and tv light, the movie moon so full and spooky, the simple spell of black and white. The room a dance of shadows, the only sound the recitations of the dead. All the time and what it takes right there with you in the wide awake. A turning of the pillow, a shifting of the bones. The...
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I’m not by nature a smiler. I generally haven’t got any teeth in the game. I take a bite of every line, take my taste of every declamation and utterance, right out of the horse’s mouth. These days it’s all declarative toothaches and the gaps where teeth used to be. Force is an honest player, it knows all its lines, it knows its motive from...
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There’s the angle and the aperture, and all the lofty rhetoric. There’s the stone angels giving you the signal. The miracle has come and gone, with only the stories ever staying. Now there’s chords and notes, scapegoats and golden throats, the landscape of the revelation. Coils of smoke and sawed through rope and the cobwebs in the corners. The window always open, the atmosphere always...
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We arrive between cataclysms, at the gracious side of great devourings, and just like that we become the dreaming. Beneath another too soon blue and the fresh breathing green, the restless belly and the road of life. We run our mouths and our learned routes until we have to rest our heads, something to serve as shelter, the respite of dreams and some pleasure if...
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Deep in the black dog bandwidth, smoke and wind and the way they placed the gravity heavily laden upon my frame and grace. I hang my head, watching the flight plans of porch flies adjust their geometries, some shared frequency there in the calculations. Lawn mowers sound out above the rush of the air and all the shared genres of song, bass line thump and...
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It’s still a little ways from sundown. It’s still the wind and the dashing smoke. Houses papered with pressed leaf shadows, the sun still kissing the swaying trees, the green reaches of the dreaming earth holding down the ground. There is a chill beneath these eaves, there is a cold grown of the lonesomeness between blood and bone, the haunted feeling of a fire burning...
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