Saturday, August 21, 2010

Direct sunlight . . . 74 degrees . . .

Sun came up . . . seems hours ago . . . Like that when you don't get much sleep . . . Another dark night of the soul for the history books? We'll see . . .

Editing [insert growl] . . . puttering w/ a passage from newest novel . . . maybe goes:

Moths collapsing. The moon surrenders to tears.

Birds and summer sky hide from Night’s traveling dialogue of words.

The cigarette in Cardigan’s hand turns to ashes. The empty bottle at his feet did not sail. He feels like a jigsaw piece that will never meet luck.

He lights another cigarette. Its smoke is a wedding gown that can find no harbor, or hand to take it to happiness. Wasted. It waits, thinning when no water of situation or information comes to sing to its spiraling branches.

Confusion. Once. Orientation muffling reality.

No follow me. No horn of plenty. This sea is barren.

It clings to his eyes.

Cardigan burns, slides into his soft discontent. Notices the pack is empty and the Night’s din of bitter ways has not tired of blinding hearts with dust.

He could sleep. Would like to.

But some border yet to cross will not leave the near and far of his landscape of minutes.

He wants to say, I am not like you. I am not your mirror.

Wants to.

But his tongue is an old shoe with no wings.

He stares into his hand. Asks, “Mountain, or devil?”

No reply comes.

There is a light in the distance. Where there is light there is a drink and a cash register and momentum that hasn’t lost its color . . .

A moth collapses. His last cigarette is ashes.

. . . Maybe . . . if I don't change it in the next look see . . .

Got a tale to submit to an anthology today. My 2nd Western [but that's just the stage . . . It's really nothing more than two hard men pinned to a night of hard weather . . .] . . . Kinda sick of looking at it . . . Worrying about 2 words . . . wouldn't mind if it was a whole sentence, but two words? ??

Incense for today: Rose and Sandalwood.

Music [so far]: Deaf Center. Might need a bit of Bob Seger later now . . .

Tea: black on ice.

. . . I hear tell it will be 84 here today. Better stock up on ice. [Thanks, Bob!! !]

Magpies have arrived . . . Guess they slept in . . . Can't say I blame them . . .

Now where did I leave my smokes?

Ah, there.

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