220
All you listeners, flat out broke. Back on the tip fixing to repair some of the same old wear and tear. All I say is blackbird words. Wrapping my own dark wounds like some might wrap a newborn baby. To keep it from flying or breaking its own undergrown wings. I called on you last night, wrestling with chest things. Pounding and puzzles, tangles of jangled justice meted out by bones. You knew how I felt about caves, swooping bats at night. Still you led me into the crevices. If carpets can convey color, can be made magic and roll up dead bodies, then deep will always be the best adjective for the hollow space between our own claimed planets. Safe from gods and myths and medicine, we will be braiding our compass premonitions into tall ropes to hold each other down. A whole new Lilliput for the masochists and martyrs, not comfortable unless uncomfortable. Handpainted signposts. Dirges made dingier by distance. Like eyes you can no longer remember the color of. If it bruises then you know it’s alive, I thought. Until I heard the stones breathe and was swallowed whole by an ocean wave. So to cower in lamplight, a man-made filament electrified into a blaze of bitter brightness may be a destiny for the rest of me.
