Cross my heart and hope to die. Cross my fingers to spare the truth. The hours go on marching by, the years retreat into time’s horizon, now ever and always falling into ash. The long drawn shadows, the long lost artifact. The curse of garden, the break in between songs, the stars you could see if the window’d only let you. The stars you could...
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The bass line seems to stray a little from step to step, the moment and the great ascent, a bare bulb and that spiral of smoke. A pause for old applause, then the rhythm takes a ride, from the haunted electronic ephemera to the blood and viscera and the ship with black sails. The symphonic rumble roll spread all around the orchestra, the gamelan musculoskeletal...
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The medicine almost doesn’t show, between the steaming mug of k cup whispered nothing and the flower that hasn’t touched the bloom. The dirty steel and tepid water, the dreaming and the fecund flesh. Sharp shores behind the eyes as the tide takes its toll, the breath a labored bellows. Some more smoke, cobwebs and textured shadows, the sashay of the music and the somber...
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It’s already outside the reach of sundown, the twilight full of cars and sirens. It’s already dusk going hard into darkness, the night all in my eyes. Again I sit with my back to the west, watching the world swallowed whole by its shadow. Again I let the song slip away, no longer fighting the tide of sky and stars. Back at the blank page...
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The single bulb, the window’s breeze, the ashtray cradling the rising smoke. Another measure of this quintessence, another port in the storm, the wind so cold the robe so warm. The wishes picked at so long they turn to wounds, consume the flesh as the mind devours the time, a midden full of wooden nickels and burned out stars. The slow tongue of shadows steeping...
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The night again, and the gutters crawl with whistles wetted and the leaping of loose light. The porch again, the light pushing softly off the wall, bejeweled with shed carapace and enmeshed beneath the covetous web. The smoke again, a rasp across the tongue then the curl in slow ascent. The steel cup, from black bitter mirror to blown steam to quaffed dose, a leaning...
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The year hardly started and it’s already getting used up. The calendar counting another month out, time parsed by cup and bowl. Coffee slowly steaming, gathered flower waiting for the burn. The weeks fly fleetingly, the flesh trembles unto dust, the treasured rituals disappear as if the never existed at all. The way you set the table, the order of the silverware, the water and...
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At least you look the part. You look like they’d think you’d look, and seeing is believing. It might work if you stand just so. It might work if you stick to the script. Belief is easier when everybody does it. Remember the audience, remember the ensemble, remember where the exits are. Play it right, it’s money in the bank. Take the show on the...
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amra:
I just love your writing. Thank so much for sharing!
This is just me, and I’m no expert, but people seem to like to have a good time. The case I make is purely anecdotal, I’m going by the hooting and the broken bottles. The gutter tossed condoms and the discarded underwear. The moon shots and victory riots and the fireworks displays down the block. Spills and chills and varietal stimulation. I don’t blame them—...
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The weight of the world is held by a single light shining on the ceiling, pressing shadows across the textured heavens with a steady shining kiss. The sort of kiss that shines so bright it reveals the essence across each moment, a lesson from all that it is and the legions it is not. The shift among the realms, the moon pulling clout from the...
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