|Residency at Walburga|
Across from the endless, she sat. Spat upon all that could not pontificate without remorse. Each door slamming, each banal dashboard coming as fast as the speed of light, (death is such a quick thing), each dance with the wild tiger, gyrated a scurvy moment—after the molten—into a dream of consequence. Who were they that thought so much of themselves? Those who dragged spider web hairs from an unadorned face. Their lips leak broiling accusations. Who were they in their lack of commitment, engaging in the worst suppression? The smugness of vast cardinals at the wine table. Carriers of badges begrudging worthy redemptive powers. Burning without fire. Disregarding shimmering voluptuary. Quenching silken desires. Born dull, stayed dull. Beasts of no nation. Bold. Boring. Too many of them. She should have thought she would not see so many. There they were, though. An ocean of misplaced dedication. They were everything and everywhere. They were the foundry, the denial of lackluster selfhood. The charge of no night brigade, the valley of non sequiturs, the boastful derision generating ennui until the end of time.
Shall we not avoid such comeuppance where all crossed wires sizzle? Shall not the night hold watery repetition—beware the recurring theme of salty gestation. The sea will not hold transgressions or best moments. They will be best by all but yourself, blocked breathless, striding a reptilian trance. A tussle with the beneath, a dread day in the stand where minutia shall be relived whether you want it or not. The black shower of pale boys haunt you. Quick they were. Fierce, shiny rectangles, bought at a cost. The corner turned, the rail of infants, the destitution. Off it came, down you went, buoyant by the darkness of various prisons. These ruffians never took hold but honed your edge finely. Such sharpness can only mean one thing—renewal, everlasting and often. For if no renewal, every snake would die naked and exposed. While naked and exposed you were, your vulnerability turned humiliation into stone steps that could be traveled. Buying against the future, you look back to see such silliness. Such wastefulness and avoidance. Down to the barrel without a cheese. There you took the crown, toddling off to mossy wetness where all is reworked into base magicians and semiprecious earls. Slithering silently to a room near the Roman storehouse scrolls, where you waited an eternity, knocking until you knew no one would answer. Bowl empty, tunnel dug. Freedom.
What a summer it is, though. All tarnishments past. A clean well lit place, daylight illumination. First, giant metropolis steamy in its relentless educational crustations, on the river, in the bowels. Hard to digest; overwhelming and kind. Then, to the big house. Dawdling on the beach, respites from interior dialogs. Each notion a new page. Each dish a new resolution. What did they want anyway, you wonder? Smashing shells hold no sanctity for the original version. Still, they hold on, in fierce demand. Strange brew, so close yet so far. No matter. The road is open and she is on it again. The gypsy ghost knows no bounds, accepts no translations. Steadfast in resolve not to be anyone's imagined snipe, minx-like she continues to refine and polish the shiny edge of metal for her own delight.