“If there be any art in the weathers of this earth. Or char these
bones to coal. If you can, if you can. A blackened rag in the rain.” –Cormac McCarthy, Suttree |
You sleep everywhere, in the ashes, under the kitchen sink, the bar stool, frayed quilts, small ridges and spines that contort into outgoing roads of their liking just as easily vegetable or mineral floating through bandied shadows neither hero nor insect, a series of timed cries, stumbles hard-pressed to preserve dignity the pulse drum of the irrevocable act |