"Dread ain't nothing you can laugh about." - John PhillipsIt is like a storm gathering. Clouds that crackle and whine. Grayscale prisms arch above my deathspot. Rain like soldiers with shields graffiti'd sluice the fallen heavens. Enveloped in the afternoon mud, I dream of cartoons, Saturday morning globes in video turnstiles.
Every house is a House of Mystery. Everyone worships his own god. The face smiles; the skull does not. I fell between two trees, took note of their heights, weighed the fallen leaves. The numbers are important.
I met a cowboy at the train and checked my phone for the time, anticipating an answer. A World Book opened in space and cast a page down to me, but it was lost in a funnel of oak leaves that skittered like a spun quarter into the levee.
It is minutes after4:00 pm. The rain has stopped, the wind isn't blowing. But the clock keeps pulsing.
The genius is at work.
1 comment:
'the face smiles, the skull does not'. fuck you. i should have written that.
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