Road sign Lyric
Posted: November 24th, 2008, 2:28 am
Crest and watch buff rock lay out-- living, long-suffering lyric of atmosphere-- each strain, rift and current a potential defining storm in a calm super cell, in waiting. Deep time. Read space, measure its measureless face with something known, a road sign punctured by buckshot on glow, spinning under blue and then black, no breath. Ear-shattering lull. "AUSTIN-- 149 MI". Possibility is a thin ribbon and peace reclines on a leaning sign ruined by a shotgun.
Sun is spray-painted, must be dust. Why is a country mile long? You see them end to end plain as day unless dust is up. A city mile is long. Empires occupy mere blocks, and crossing them takes years off your life. Look for the right storm without a sky, vertical canyons of religion in waiting. The wrong door could mean thirty years, and that's longer than a country mile.
You can't run to the strata, you have obligations, and the desert shrinks as spreads over me. Odd, the switch from one side of a ridge to the other, atop the last dry-boned spine I stumbled up. I drifted too far west; the mountain is nearly gone. Light storms press down and no one can withstand that intensity, arid-pure, though it begins to ease, a roundscape descending on my right, soft and vague as here appears from there, I see myth curving down. On my left are speckles on a valley floor. Someone keeps the light on. I must be home, dead mountain, living rock, lyric atmospheric.
But if you said I was sick of this place I would listen. If you said let's go we would find a new road. We would be our own pain, our own song to the rhythm of wipers in a rare desert rain. If you said I was ready I would listen. We would find a place, some place different against the wind. We would make a life of it I'm sure. It is damn quiet except for the wipers.
Sun is spray-painted, must be dust. Why is a country mile long? You see them end to end plain as day unless dust is up. A city mile is long. Empires occupy mere blocks, and crossing them takes years off your life. Look for the right storm without a sky, vertical canyons of religion in waiting. The wrong door could mean thirty years, and that's longer than a country mile.
You can't run to the strata, you have obligations, and the desert shrinks as spreads over me. Odd, the switch from one side of a ridge to the other, atop the last dry-boned spine I stumbled up. I drifted too far west; the mountain is nearly gone. Light storms press down and no one can withstand that intensity, arid-pure, though it begins to ease, a roundscape descending on my right, soft and vague as here appears from there, I see myth curving down. On my left are speckles on a valley floor. Someone keeps the light on. I must be home, dead mountain, living rock, lyric atmospheric.
But if you said I was sick of this place I would listen. If you said let's go we would find a new road. We would be our own pain, our own song to the rhythm of wipers in a rare desert rain. If you said I was ready I would listen. We would find a place, some place different against the wind. We would make a life of it I'm sure. It is damn quiet except for the wipers.
