Midnight in the garden of blood and eagles.
We’re bleeding from puncture wounds, something viscous, crimson, and warm.
No one tied you down, you rolled up against the dock, buffeting and clunking hollow through the solitary night.
How does anything lay claim to any of it?
Humans, I think I’ve fallen out of love with you now I’ve learned you spurt dirt-drenched aerosols in a jet out front of your faces whenever you laugh or cough or yell or sing. Ew. Really. Fucking ew. That was a revelation on the disappointing side of the ledger. You initially gained points for your relative hairlessness, lost most of them with this. Wear a damn mask, act like a fucking grown-up, and you might regain a few.
Ha, wait. You know what this is like, the strings sweeping over us, the low notes growling under your hallowed contralto like the final tales of long-forgotten wolves.
“Something’s comin’ over the hill, and I ain’t so sure you gonna like it.”
“Well. Try me, cholo.”
Remember, compadre, we always came to this same piece of waste ground, filled with hazards, and each time we tried to create our own jogo bonito. The feel of the ball a-spin atop your foot, quieting its gyre at the exact right moment, the hock, the updraft, the rainbow, that feeling when you let it fall and check it with your instep, dead, or nestle it like an egg in the nape of your neck, the heartbeat pause, and then all your friends stream your way, laughing, cursing, slapping, and take the ball and do more joy to it, calling you always the best and most beautiful names.
Venerated, unseemly. The ribald colours of longing.
“Come. This way.”
“You know where we’re heading? How long we’ll be riding?”
“Follow the spiral dust, and give thanks to the night songs of coyotes.”
“Señorita, if we don’t make it, won’t you feel good about me right to the end?”
“Keep singin’ and playin’, music man. And meet me in Laurel Canyon. Your luck has to turn.”
Drenched with salt from inside, collected near the shoulder of rock like scarabs, we peek around it, and we see the hopelessness the world tried to spare us.
A black hole spinning blind and silent, an accelerating cluster of stars sucked processional into its holy ravenous lightless maw.
Death. It’s not onrushing. At its moment of truth, it’s a quickening absence, a sucking of an ebbing wave pulling you into the riptide. You feel it hollow and infallible in your chest, an intake of breath and a twinge of hurt before a vast unbreathable pain and before pain is then erased. A great accumulative loss and a great mercy both. That moment. That volatile, hectic instant before everything’s gone.
True, the past echoes and echoes and echoes. Some of it is a story, poured from cut crystal, pored over by feeble old men, teased and unraveled and dreamed of again.
For who, no one knows.
Hear me, though.
The truth is a story too.
And while the landfill’s where it ends, for now—like love and loss—it’s only recycling.
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Image © Rebecca Loranger