29 August 2005

Clamma Firma in the Autumn Dig

hand me stones
to break these walls
hand me grief
and ill change it all

Sometimes I think I’m wasting my talent on the sciences when I should be ranting on my own weekly cable access show. I’d totally have a following, and then, the cult: mass suicides for everyone! Yay! And ill bet you’re asking yourself right now, just how much crack does that boy smoke a week? And the answer is a lot. And not a little a lot. Like a lot a lot. I bury my head in the stuff like two big crack-y boobs, it’s the neuroticism really. If I had a choice, id totally sleep during the day and just stay up all night long and then go to bed at sunrise. I like cities at night, they’re so much better than in the light.
Write that down.
Forgive me for I haven’t had a good rant in weeks, and my website hasn’t had one in months but today is autumn here, cold, rainy, wonderful. And the rant is back. Like a cruel mistress it'll sway the words on the breeze and sling my head into a frenzy. Ah the love, the loath, the wistful whench. Indeed. The streets can't claim me just yet, its far too early with this summer vein throbbing in agony and heat trying melt off the chill fingers of our loveliest of seasons as she climbs back o'er the heels of us. There's no statute that says this aire of green tepid touch hsa to prevail so late into the year. I have been waiting.
There's little that makes for a proper evening, little that makes for a solemn night. The smell of rain against the sound of sobbing leaves always lends to the alacrity, the pomp, the overall vestige and fanfare of fall. Spring has its buds and heat, its astounding renewal that shoots, upheaves the land and colors, its grieving, blinding. But autumn is the aged wisdom of the earth, the melloeing of a smooth whisky that rolls with flavour accross the pallate. It is glib and gallant, but subtle as well in its ornate vox and acousticum. While spring airs itself hollowly, promising a great rejuvenation, a great cheer that is swallowed with the end of summer. Death is different in its compact. It is full as proffered. Autumn comes before summer stales and it files down the great spaces of green, letting them wilt into the drab congress of tawny browns. It leaves nothing untouched, and in truth it doesn't end, it is usurped. Thrown back by this capricious spring, so rash and young. Lovlier seasons merely must wait.
This framework for monarchy is all a bit wholesale and shoddy. We trim and rake and wait and pick, we huddle and wallow and pray that all will leave us fit. The cannibalism we have for one and each other does chafe at our strength over the seasons. This humanity that we claim is our suit of a soul is more makeshift, handed down, scuffed, and torn. It is a farce.
And the streets will have us show this violence, this gruff framed wire act. It'll bend and narrow and lead. Coursing fates are the asphalt gods, lying in wait for our feet, taking their turns and time to meet some orchestral montage. Like a clip show laid to cork, a half-eaten bagel and bordeaux braided stream, theres a chance we'll twist a misplaced limb in that gorded hand and flail in merciful pains. Time and again, we'll find what we need. No point of order, harping or harpies playeing for the seat as this, no charisma or cabby turns the tram off the wringing rail, just throttle and volume and chord echo straining to loose this firmament from an aerie in our throats. Cheers.