An Old Recipe



Some days come out a bit sharper.  A bit stronger.  This shouldn’t be one, but then I heard a song, saw the word, felt the pull and now, I’ve gone through the mill and been ground down to a single point.

I’m doing it wrong, that’s all I can tell.  If it’s being done at all.  If it makes a sound, it is as quiet as a key turning in a churchyard in a quiet, peaceable land situated far across seven of the seven seas.

As forgettable as the last snowfall.   Once a terror, now an amusing myth never to come again, even the ink fades in the bright, spring light.   Vernal, clement, pleasing, carrying a thousand half-full cups and a dry tray. Take what you will, I am here to serve.

Tomorrow: the scullery maid, the diagnosis, the girl who was, all tossed into black garbage bags and sent off for better use, decay, feeding of flowers.

I could just as easily toss you with it. We could go flying together, albeit in separate bags, in separate directions to separate meridians.  A shared demarcation, notation, notch in the old bedframe.  As so many have gone before, thrown into the wind.  Up, up, up.  Out and away from all that is.  All that is so pre-determined and where the breath of kings becomes the breath of paupers and the air is just the perfume of dead sinners mingling with dead saints.

Full of good works, the day from dawn to dusk, a ritual to find myself prepared?  A lustratio for the whole lumbering city from gate to gate.  But my throat burns, and my fever lingers and I fear that whatever line is drawn, whatever heights are reached, the trajectory has but one path.  Down, down, down.

I do not give you away to charity, though you can walk there if you would, just down the street and around the corner.  Wouldn’t even need a map to get there, easy as falling over a log.  You are endowed by your creator with these inalienable rights I cannot seize, not that I want them, just that I would, because it would be easy and fast and as pretty as a chloroformed rag.  You are human, turns out, and I could fall in love with a shadow on a wall if it motioned me closer, turns out.  And danging in the wind, ill, confused, boiled, against my will, isn’t so tenable a spot to reset the gears of the world.   Turns out.

Perhaps I took too little care.  Perhaps I took too much. Either way, the bellows blew the thing right out.  If I cannot know and I cannot ask, I can do what remains, which is to watch a hope curl up.  A whole life die.



We go fetal, we go swinging, we fling our self towards churchyards.  Arm outstretched, aiming for keyholes or bodies to turn.  We lose ballast and take off.

Why fear death? Be scared of living.

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