Put Another Pot on For Us
what is unpredictable is also punctual. this is the first law of the rock.
it all means very little to the godless insects crouching outside of your kitchen window.
only the most ancient inhabitants know the splendor of the stonewashed floor in the groves of the wet world, their wicked trees projecting the senselessness that has been half-snapped into the pages made from their own young.
snakes they adore, those messengers of which cannot be negated. they make their beds and their families in the ivy and abandon them at the feet of the land, a collective mother, who expects all its children to feed and wash themselves. yet here is a home to fit all needs.
to this place — or person — what lives or dies produces only the subtlest of shrugs.
it (and what is it?) does not understand frustration, does not feel the anxiety of time, an invisible force that only breathes when acknowledged. ignore it and only those of us who can speak and make love or bombs will notice and try to drive it out. towards us it is the most indifferent.
we can agonize over the cigarette ashes in the soil or imagine that these are gifts for the empty altar, a gratitude for the absurdity of the greens and the browns that put us to bed every night, without hindrance.
cracked and smooth feet sink into the swamps and the stillness of change meets them.