Dusting for Prints
Another piece of sand. Descending into monumental decay. Returning
to the brothers that have fallen before. Forming a pyramid that
stands in defiance to life's precious disappearing act. Another night
of silence. Just the mute collision of words. Harboring themselves
against the heart's weary intentions. Another hour. Surrounded
by memories and moments and dried tears. Just another bottle of
lethal absence, measured and secured...and mounted on the shelf.
A heart beat. Distant but steady. Battling the brutal sounds
coming from the expanding metal factories. Riding a tide
of absolution. Racing toward a meeting of minds. A twisted idea
of common ground. A wave of static crashing into the fragile
receptor...disintegrating the incoming message beyond recognition.
News from home. Lines of a telegram. Fragments of a poem.
Some essential vessel carrying a meaning...delivered but never
received. Taken out to sea. Lost forever.
The witnesses are bowing their heads in shame. Shielding their
mist-covered eyes from the judgment that emanates from nowhere.
Directed at nothing. Wearing their dark cloaks -- covering
anything that might otherwise become exposed. Pocketing their
hands deep inside. For warmth. Or for some other reason. Burying
something from sight. Suffering. Lone testimonies. Curses.
Misinterpretations. Allowances. Justice. A fistful of printed
papers -- something for their trouble...something for their
suspended sense of humanity.
To and fro. Here and there. Points along a map that form
constellations projecting our image of progress...our idea
of enlightenment. With a note pinned to the side. Imploring
the casual observer to take a closer look at the legend.
To track down the loose ends and draw their own conclusions.
To apply a squinted eye where they see fit. Wondering what
set of crooked fingers have handled this blurred document.
Few things can be trusted less than a line drawn on a piece
of paper. And even though we all instinctively know this, most
will gladly accept the slightest tangible evidence of truth placed
in front of us. Keeping it simple. How many versions of
reality do you need, anyway? The white man's burden in action.
Picking up on the final ring. To find only a dial tone.
Turning in response. To find an empty sidewalk. Arriving
late. To find a room full of chairs. Checking your
invitation at the door. Taking a seat in the back to await
the choir that left town on the last bus. One step behind.
Two steps away. Three steps until dawn. Four steps to the
exit. Past the sleeping guard. Into the foggy evening. The
hourglass turning upside down. One more time. Measuring the
distance between dissolves. The sandman busying himself with
the usual formalities. Sweeping away the collected debris of
another day. Into the far reaches of awareness. Preparing the
set. Caught up in minor details. Allowing you to slip by unnoticed.
Will anybody pay any mind if you sit this round out?... What chance
is waiting to be missed? What unspoken covenant is lying by the
side of the road?...to be washed away by the street cleaners.
Stepping aside and sticking to the shadows. Picking up the
signal. A voice is rising. Mixing with the sweet elevated breath
of a gentle breeze. A shot is fired. One more reminder of the
war we've been fighting for centuries. A cloud is forming.
Floating across the sky and taking the shape of Mercury -- winged
shoes and all. On another mission from above. Waiting patiently...as
the innocent drift into slumber...and delivering his message.
Striking into the depths of consciousness.
Do you think you can repeat that? Again...
~ ~ ~
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