wildwestwind: Centipede tracks

Michael's Fáilte

Welcome to these writing warmups, blatherings, rantings, meditations, perorations, salutations, latest and those on time, those narrative, declarative, interrogative, gollywogative and other outdated, belated, simulated musings, perusings, shavings and other close calls, with no disrespect intended, that's why no real names included whenever impossible to avoid the guilt that came in the crib for uttering something that would hurt or injure those in authority, being of everlasting servitude to all and sundry, having chosen the road not taken and the frost on the pumpkin long before the kettle turned black or the cat found its own tail fascinating,
Your humble servant, etc.

Thursday, January 13, 2011

Centipede tracks

Centipede tracks in the dust defining the anatomy of the past—like the time you took your siesta under the swing set and dozed off to the faint percussions of far-off conversations in that coffee shop in the rain the way it fell in big drops one per cloud passing over the wires, one at a time, too, from each runnel of the corrugated roofing—you know, those corduroy roads the plantation trucks claimed as their own. Those were the dust storm days with a small confusion at the weekend as Shinto and Christian split the difference in the morning air. Go ahead, say you weren't there. Say the bits fell apart with every swipe of the machete and every crumpled chit they used instead of money, but I'm telling you it all comes down to this place right here, the components whole again, everyone living in each other's head and the excruciating sting of the truth burning off all the hairs of your right arm.