Friday, August 16, 2013

Author Posthumous Haunting

Who is the audience? Ancient graffiti. For whom do I write? A dead god? Those I love who have lost and are losing their minds? My own dead self? The vast skeleton out there in the Desert, half buried in the sand, shattered skull, scattered teeth, ancient bones broken under centuries of storms. In the cave of that cathedral cranium, sitting before a fire, feeding pages into the flames. Why do anything? Why create? Why spin figures out of the baseless fabric, this insubstantial pageant faded? The words disintegrate against the zero of everything. Thoughts turn to dust in the fallow womb of this world. And yet... the guttering flame endures as the fleshy marionette jerks in sad pantomime over the rack of these bones. I am that one now that mocks his own grinning. Author posthumous haunting, one with the man in the wind and the west moon, stars at elbow and foot. My horrible dominion.