Down The Waterspout



I remember running my hand over your scales. The slow crawl of time. My hand’s heedlessness echoing reptilian, limbic brain recognizing that call to the dark, that nod to the nothing, transmitting from your body’s music through the maze that imprints an identity on the whorls of my fingertips, humming and hiccoughing awkward messages up my spine. I nearly faint from it.

My reflex is to submit, but my mind seeks retreat. This need for balance is irrational. Gravity will not be denied the pleasure of our pratfalls. Why not accept it? We are all a dizzy array of moments in rhythm sounding out timpani through percussive skins that demand to be beaten.

I remember your face like some wondrous Meso-American piece… but in three dimensions, a living tapestry of belief and magical ancient motifs… sacred… a codex… the Mayan’s wove such elaborate textiles for their clerics. Yours was the face of God. The suns in your eye sockets always blinding me. But no more…

The Mayans were right about the apocalypse. They forgot to mention one thing, though. Our world ended before it began.

I never solved our mystery. You tore the silk from the loom before I could begin reweaving us together. Maybe you were right not to thread needle. Cat’s cradles tangle the tangible, but I have always found webs sublime. They feed me when I’m hungry. “Let’s be honest.” Self-delusion was something I was never truly honest about. Honesty itself is a sham, just another shell game, and we are all the shills, complicit in the con of ourselves.







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