Trust

Offer

Went down to the crossroads fell down on my knees.

Went down to the crossroads fell down on my knees.

Risin sun sinkin down,

Ooooh lord, what a sight to see.

Behold

Provide

 I recall the sound. Something deforming that shouldn't, wasn't made to. I felt it more than I heard it.

A shriek to mark the end of intention.

A void now and it seems as though the rest of your life should rush in and fill it up 

like a bucket you finally pushed all the way under the surface.
A void still.

You sense it. 

Spectral, maybe, and abstract, but you know all the same : there's more behind you than before.

A few of the attendants who knew him better than you shake your hand and search your face longingly for that last glimpse of someone else's shadow. 

Gone but not forgotten, gone but not forgotten, gone but not forgotten. 

A desperate mantra. People in need of relief.

Something obscene about that : gone and who the fuck knows where or why? 

Lets not know and be relieved for that.

Touch

I thought I saw something odd: a pattern dissolving into mayhem.

As some chaos longs to know order.

That odd moment when your brain starts whirring before your eyes know the light.

And you find yourself where you left yourself when the light left you.

Yet somehow, the place isn't quite real until you leave it again.

A caress is a passing thing.
And a ceaseless touch meaningless. 

The machine about me, a flying and startlingly still ribbon of asphalt beneath, tenterhooks pulling all things just right, a timing belt as infinity sign.
Time, space and speed sit around trying to outsmart one another, as the stagehands make it all anew.
Once in awhile you pass over under or through something. 

Then you can say "Ah, I felt it : Things have changed : Things are different now." 

Yet the subtle change, the slight one, that one owned by no moment, 

That is the secret one.

When did the water turn to glass? 

When did that flush take her neck? 

When did the Western sky go black?

Alea iacta est

5 FEB 14

Nate Kauffman posting on a blog : tantamount to Lucifer sanctifying himself 
at the soap-dispenser-style font at the Vatican's church on the Pope's birthday. 

They remember Spanish Flu: read their Camus, knew Dr. Rieux.

But you may be sleeping on the floor, sleeping in a king-sized bed.

Thusly I'm raked by the never-ebbing tide of de-sapienization. 

Hold Fast, mateys! But the cleats begin to creak...

A river works better for that, I suppose : a muddy one, 
 reddish with clay,

which I cross into treason of the self.   

Kansas in July and, as the already-quoted poet would agree, 

I didn't need a weatherman to know :

There, I did it.

And yes, I feel dirty. 

Frowny face emoticon.