28 July 2011
“For everything you have missed, you have gained something else, and for everything you gain, you lose something else.”
Beneath the belly rumble of fan blades beating the deviled heat and needling flesh in hot beds of wettish coverlets and linens, feverish lips fitted over crescent crowns of teeth. Behold the solstice trees softly swollen with cicadas, their impregnated odes flooding the tender nucleus of nostalgia, and songs of the bullfrogs and crickets all stuffed into the flask of dusk as the ebony throat of night swallows the sun, sinking flame engulfed by embryos of the land’s catacombs.
Tempest of the moon and moth-eaten souls, my ribcage weeping where a small wood grows in trellises of dew-lipped leaves, delta blues howling from holy speakers. At which crook of the road did I lose my way?
Oh, the anguish of indecision! I could go nowhere. I could do nothing. I could be no one. I could give in, I could give up. Enough! I’ve bled this burden to its scarlet end. I break, I scar, I grit, I gather up.
It’s all a great gamble, in this genocide of dreams. At war with the workforce, at war with sanity, at war with skepticism, at war with greed. Guns spitting, lick your wounds, licks of blood.
The sun breathes out through your lungs, a rapture, hallowed and sanctified and unafraid. Cosmic rebirth, erupt into stardust. Dreamers, rise ...