guitar strings meld with a breeze that cries for thunder under a drape of southern sun. does this wind carry the cries of Isaac’s touchdown, surely it has swept into the echoes of yesteryear remnants. a land, a people, torn asunder only to revisit a nightmare that walks boldly anytime of day.
a jet echoes our sky, the ground seems to sway under its lowing pressure. acoustic rhythm patterns a hard laborer’s hammer. he builds a dream of some other person’s castle.
Is it construction, or destruction; we could argue, but there is no changing the West’s ways. We continue to get drunk on the oil of expansion, usurping all oil until we fight for that last dregs that shall shimmer in our enemies pupil, teasing us to try to capture its last weapon – mass destruction, we peril.
as the man lays dying, McCarthy describes the long look the weather-beaten horse gives from the shanty door. death torturing the flea-bitten animal seems more mournful than the dark fate of one with four limbs – two to walk, two to destroy their kin with knife or gun. there will be blood – Cormac makes one cheer for the horse that races down the dusty arroyo, breaking free from the holds of its master’s whip and weathered boot. damn the man whose sole purpose is to hunt the scalps of humans. each animal that crawls from a wild moonlight breathes life, reveals a bit of humanity – isn’t it strange, that the animal is less beast than the animal not beast.
who in darkness shall spill blood out of an empty hunger? who under the shadows spills blood out of just emptiness?
I took a random day off today…several hours of vacay are the one perk of living a boring, stable life in which one has held the same job for a decade. These thoughts were composed under a shade tree, a shady area that is a stones throw from where I reside. Pandora currently streams classical guitar (Christopher Parkening) while trucks next door honk with their filled dirt loads, signaling the next truck to pull into place. A constant chatter of hammers and nail guns compets with the random bird that doesn’t seek cover from the afternoon heat.
Heat rolls over the pup and me; flies dip for a taste of us; I taste the cooling coffee from an old glass jar. Cormac McCarthy entertains with a brutal world of a wild west we’ve never experienced. He paints it heavily in blood and brilliance; not an ounce of compassion is spared except for an animal about to die. The 1800s were a beastly time – savagery on the plains and in the canyons, blood spilled was equal opportunity – be it white, black, red or brown, down South, only the ghosts slept peacefully.
the chair was facing no where… just waiting.
Z and I went exploring – this is what we found after following a road that currently leads to no where. We rounded the bend to find this chair. What you cannot see is the nice neighborhood in rural suburbia that is on the other side. However, it seems more fantastical, romantic, not to reveal this bit of information. Instead, keep imagining a scrub of land where someone has decided to occupy time to just stare into where? Does he or she stare at the moon while whispering to the stars a lone desire. Perhaps the last person on earth, too far from anywhere; too far to desire the last drop of oil or blood. ~