Between twisted twine there is a concept of rope, dangling from the ceiling, weighted by the air that fills it, held up by empty hands clenched around fingernails and broken wrists. There is a weightlessness, too, smiling as it floats up and into the ceiling, where dust and mold have settled into the tar-pebbled shingles shifting in the hurricane winds; whipped and stirred into clouds of bellowing screams, low rumbles on the mountains, travelling by vibration deep into timeless chasms wide as a gaping maw, caught in exhale of a smoke aeons older than the fires which burned it. Gravity's grasp is thin here and thrown into geode clusters breaking expensively to the surface where men with coal tans and salt sweat scratch their overgrown beards then plummit a six foot pipe of steel into the vein where oil flows like molasses, waiting for a master to whom it will ignite and give movement, life and trains, lubricant, style and belly quenchers. Here, in this room where all things began, there was also a chair, made of wood, polished by machinery invented by clay and drums. This throne is bare and lonely from a fading warmth of feet, pressed on toes before it was kicked away and everything swung, like a pendulum; eggs thrown into a basket ten miles deep and cracking at the bottom of the neck squeezing vocal sighs and altered cries from tired breath, which will be brief and meaningless, save for the air it moves to start a war.

02/15/2006

Author's Note: There is a tiny death to every breath, and space to fill it after.

Posted on 02/22/2006
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