day breaks and they march to the buzz of rain, they who now thicken our western roads and churn cold
day breaks and they march to the buzz of rain, they who now thicken our western roads and churn cold fields to mud the invading conquered-and-reconquering, bringing along the detritus of a life, tokens imbued with a memorial power: – always she has a stale green and white ribboned mint, snatched from a porcelain bowl at the wake, a display which implied a public offer tho’ she felt a thief anyways – in one pocket, a note of apology that led to further encounters – in another’s case, her nightshirt concealed, scent long diffused from the fabric, kept as a sigil as her echo fades and an ever-growing framework of memories obscure the structures beneath – a printed orange slip of high-density polyethylene whose meaning would later be inverted upon itself and made wrong against foul riptides, through choking clouds, bypassing trapped bridges to leprous islands, here, through the industrial district furnaces growl and pistons rally to power the jet-lungs, the Breath of the Son who exhales the atmos of our Landmark Dome each turns in passing, burned limbic pathways unable to accept another unspeakable disquiet a shiver, a fleeting haunt, the freezing immediacy when the eyes meet, an unstable state teetering over criticality an out-of-spectrum waveform thrown as the Leviathan’s coils grip flush with our plane, necessarily put from the mind perhaps a trick of the shifting weather patterns to permit ourselves few words and fewer possessions, live purified (or emptied of excess, if you prefer) in them; by them; we bear only: - their piece of the One Moment which banishes all else - a complaint of the Earth itself - whispers, or mirth swallowed-back - a cause for the walking mausoleum - all his joy Ron Paul Funeral City 350000000 dead Guest post by Vern -- source link
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