Beckon

Some chordal enunciation, akin to the seismic grace of an empty earthquake; this centered punctuality a singular balancing act displaying both agility and patience. It’s a gunshot – a dueling human murder. We are crows, calling out to one another over the albumen circle; the sun is not more than a global embryo containing something greater than a tiny life. Together in our several existence, each a separate piece apart from peace, we low like cattle across the obsidian square. Every man wanders by aimlessly, sometimes yelling over what others have done to him. We have seen it. There are moments in the day when nature lulls, when the hills forget to exhale and the grasses disregard the rhythm of waves beneath the swirling void. These are the moments – sometimes hours – wherein the downbeat becomes the syncopation, and the rests resonate with walls of sound. These are the rents in the temporal fabric, the holes created by the unclean and the interposed. Who has formed these anarchic phrases we do not know; but we can be sure who it is that perpetuates them. We now notice the marks in the soil because we had then noticed the metal creature rumble by and impress them. Brown under yellow, pressure under mortal grace, we know it to be the empty earthquake; we know it to be the chordal enunciation. It’s a bulldozer – a battling iron deceit. We are horses, neighing in stables over the earthen odor; the moon is not less than a focal artery containing something smaller than a giant death. Alone in our communal duration, all a cohesive sight apart from sight, we howl like wolves across the airy smell. No man lingers near with purpose, nor ever with silence for what he has done to others. We have not heard it. There are days in the year when sun and moon dance together on the tile and cloud, when the hills support the wind instruments and the reeds above the swirling glass. These are the days – sometimes weeks – wherein the covered suffers from nakedness, and the walls decay to rubble. These are the poultices on the corporeal blanket, the salves applied to the unknown and the intermixed. Who has not loved these structured lines we do well know; and we cannot be sure who it is that permeates them. We now ignore the spots in the sky because we had then ignored the flapping fowl floating high to address them. Blue over green, buoyancy over avian space, we feel it to be the fullest stillness; we feel it to be the anxious catching of breath. It’s a blind man – a warring palpable conceit.

Beckon

candidenuts

Little Rock, United States

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