Just For A Minute.

Because we take our defeats, and stack them up like cord wood, one on top of the other, until the only existent entity is this self-inflicted labyrinth. We cavort wildly against ourselves on the inside, like Catholics standing behind closed doors in burlap sacks, whipping themselves with birch branches. I listen to the pulsing music, “was an honest man…” envisioning the halls of honor, great and white, marble, another time and place. The many lives that we lead. My heart has closed itself, it will never fall in love! My eyes will appear slate grey to you any time that I am not wearing blue, the chameleons. I am far too old; too old.

Today my bones are weary, and even the sunshine burning through the clouds to the south does not invigorate. It is stormy to the north; a tumultuous sky full of gun metal sprawls like a leviathan staking its claim above the rows of so many sleepy houses, and it does little but inspire wickedness. My brow is furrowed, there is no touch that would satiate; my muscles churn with lactic acid. Tonight I will retreat into a fortress, whose walls will echo with the self-conscious laughter of an idiot. O humans! Intellect! How you revile us, assail us with a barrage of second guessing, mental clue finding, schizophrenia. I have beached myself upon the shores of these flights of fancy; the waves of carrion no longer reach even my toes, and these are hardly suggestions.

The Dawns are heartbreaking. Every moon is atrocious and every sun bitter: sharp love has swollen me up with heady langours.