Gems lay hidden like laughter. Nights of a stillborn age — men and women out looking for things which don’t just appear in the culture. Alcohol is funneled down cackling throats. Desirous internal engines fire. Glances are cast, reeled, and cast again. Amongst we the peoples, those given over to poverties and guns, sickness born from the planes that traverse skies clouded and scratched with branches yet to bear leaves, are questions. Sleep doesn’t yet come, so I trace the crooked staff of the interrogative in search of. The windows sport reflective, mimetic orange clouds that hang ragged above the city. Responsibilities. Language. Filaments flicker in housings [and houses] not long meant for this world. I must vacate, starting anew with the coming of sunlight – a thought or a burrowing train streaking into the eyes. Cars slur about, motors flinging minutes from their exhaust pipes. Time roars right along. Doors swing open and laughter tumbles into the street, tangling me into a strangled, complicated, lonely syncopation. There is lunacy in neon. One way streets make true haste of direction. What am I trying to say, might I just be attempting to live in a physical world? Tolstoy claimed you couldn’t not think. Kafka gave us books, axes with which we might chop at the frozen sea of self. Wallace found it curious that hypocrisy and paradox were not the same thing. The roads and pitiless, obsidian nights stir beyond my still walls. Great men and women live, raging, their sails being shorn against born weather(s). I slip amongst them with my pen and paper. A witness, one slowly being brought to bear. These days will continue to spill and I’ll be there to sift through debris and dirt.
