It is a liturgy of fast ones, a recitation of questionable declarations and blistering threats, all these lullabies and alibis and mint condition world. It is a question of the efficacy of the whim wham, the juice of that voodoo that you do so well, how the words land on lone wolf and herd. It’s the magic you carry over without too much fuss. They...
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It isn’t the reasons you are seeing, only the aftermath of the antecedent. It isn’t the fire you are feeling, only sudden sirens banging old Pavlov’s gong. It bangs away on the brains and the bones, the endless collisions and the joy buzzer shocks. The ghost is always a given. The blood paints the walls and the ceilings. There is an exchange of blues, a...
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There’s not much to be done with it won’t do. Wards and mottos spilled out the mouth, oaths and qualifiers there to stain the air while whatever happens happens. These spells and expletives we sling at the slightest and at the worst linger while the world keeps going. Words turned like compost to keep it all alive. You wake up and the corridor is open....
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The crows go hard at it, black wings pumping against the gray cloud sky. The lean of the earth, the set of the sun. Turn around and it’s begun, this slow recitation of the incantation, the full press of every blessed sense. Home a once and future kingdom. The fingers picking out the chords. The song a breathless lamentation, the feelings released by weighted stone,...
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It’s not what we can live without, but how long we survive the wound. It’s not all that is denied us, but how much we are owed. Clunking around in chunks of meat and well greased ghosts, hungering for some sputter or spurt, all this smoke owed to the grill and reentry. The atmosphere stuffed with our follies and our cataclysm catechism, our insistences and...
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Again and again it is the barbarians at the gate. Again and again it is the fall of Rome. A lot depends on where you get it. A lot depends on how you’re tuned. Archival film on art school loops, a bent of lore and shtick, the words running every which way the moment they are spoken. The elders voice their opprobrium to present absences,...
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The room is full of dust and smoke, a little too big for the light in the corner. The room is clenched and crowded, mostly detritus and debris. The ghost and the guiding hope long gone, the house all but drained of home, the life left there the waiting around to die type. The nights are awful, the days untenable, and they keep on coming....
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The smoke doesn’t get too far before it gets settled, it curls it coils it drifts it handwrites epitaphs, and it unravels all at once. It doesn’t take much of the old huff and puff, home is already blown over, just a tickle of the ember sets the flag unfurling. Just a notion of a drag and here come the clouds of the conflagration. The...
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It lands like flag planting Apollo, touches down as if deified by the occasion, the flesh the apparent heir to the pursuit of day. It lands like the twist off notes spilled from hook or bridge, a progression that frees itself from context by meddling with your head. The sky seeps slow and gray, spilling from the window, leaving by the door. The instrument growls...
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The moon seems to have wandered off in these days of wane, tripping off through the fog at dawn, taking morning ambles through the flush of winter grays and blues. Stray sparks and the distant virtuosity of the mockingbird running scales and ensembles, the bare blade of the morning moon casting texture to the icy mist. The time it was taken as strolling off the...
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