This, that. You, I. Light, dark. Day, night.

Not a first sign, but an obvious change in patterns, now, that are noticeable. Trace them with your fingers if you like. Wood grains morphed from summers hot and winters cold, but this moment is a hiatus in between.

A balancing out of extremes.

And how funny is that in this twelve hours of wake and twelve hours of rest — I will not speak of it with you.

“Why” you ask in cries and sighs that echo forth from other sides of rooms and places like secret palaces where I have never gone.

Respect was an ephemeral thing that drifted away on winds and wings. A constant pulse to understand and comprehend that lasted not too long. For once it had its hands full, were you aware that we started piece-mealing apart at that exact moment?

Slow decline and decay and a gathering of particles that when they break off from our fingers, don’t go back into place. Not a right or wrong or fitting or unfit, not places we can’t name or trace or replace. Just nowhere at all. Turned not to ash but blubber rubber in the decayed outer shells of tortoises and porpoises and purposes rotten and dragged bloated down to the oil-dregged sea floor.

Do you see anymore?

A blaring white light like an imitation sun is glowing from the inside of poison walls that off-gas things and dreams and nightmares you can’t even imagine.

When was the last time you woke up screaming? Was is from dreaming? Or a sense that something more important was leaving, escaping, slipping through your paste-colored fingertips that you’ve recently noticed are fraying, breaking, skipping and tripping and stopping you from working? Do you feel it slipping?

Reigns and knots and cords that kept you tied up tight like a puppet on some very ill-designed strings. Pull and push and tug on your arms and head, feet and neck — but everyone around you is so tangled up who can tell where one ends and next one begins?

Don’t worry. It’s just an energy field that makes us feel so hopeless, hapless, down and desperate. If we cut the bullshit and clear out the cheap shit and get a longview of the long road ahead of me and you — well we can make a sort of progress in the kind of speeding toward our death.

But life and death do not increase at rates which we can comprheend. No, gravity that holds us down is just the rate of causality in the world, and who but a universe can even think to alter all the rules?

I’m scraping at the ground to dig a hole while you keep burning fuel. We’ll see who’s hole outlasts the disaster coming, coming, coming…

Tuck and roll and hide your head. The ithusi tokoloshe are coming bearing arms.
They’ll kill these fake masters in a moment of heat and hate.
My hole goes down underneath the blood while your holes prick bubbles like needles through balloons that float away from you into the nothingness.
Can your wings hold you up above the fireshed? The smoke and ash? Now just ask yourself if you’ve cleared gravity and orbit yet.

I bet the answer’s still no.

Oh. Right.
Have a happy conscious equinox.
I’ll be singing inside and beating out the vibrations of life on a little drum by fire light through the twelve-hour coming night. And in the morning, probably wake with the same amount of weight.

I can’t wait.


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