Fain, the wooden limbs, a gentle water’s run

by dschapman

Once, when unwept, and in transition, a witless sentient boy-child found himself up to his elbows in innocent blood, and then, when still without regret was he, he came to himself in the midst of the transient myth, unguided save a distant symphony, something true and heedless that hails from somewhere near horizon, somewhere near the mortal ends and means of life, the tipsy edge of naivety, the foolish longing for a nonsense long since buried dead, gone forsaken six feet under, on then to the realer world, on then to the scarcer fain, on then inwards from transgression, inwards to the parting ways, inwards to the indelicate composition in it’s fetid lucid sprawl, the indefatigable rustle in the leaves in the boughs above his head, full of all so plainly. It was the sculpting of the land he loved, the cultivation; it was the fields and wells and silos, arching up from grumbling earth and breaching native limitations like beaming steads of perpetual light in every which known direction. It was the crush and thunder of tractors built from forge and steel and human ingenuity, the gratification of ambitious boys, the witnessing of something good for someone unbelieving. There have been wonders and horrors before this and ever after surely yet, yet here at least are prayer and courtesy, and here at least are forces of pure benignity – see, see him now! Up to his elbows in innocent blood, his skin the tint of autumn’s fall, a cyclical self-causal sequence, an automaton of strength and motion, inertial in his breath, heart-beating, so insistent on benignity. A mover moves in goodness; goodness sets in motion, goodness contextualized by the endless condition of

It seems obscene to even mention it. And in times like these…Who can you trust? What can you pay?

These are hard times. Downtown, a man walked in, maskless, to the bank, demanded money, and ran away. They caught him two counties over, by word of mouth, and he ran the whole way. It hasn’t happened since the seventies. All at once the dogs are sleeping in the streets again, safe and sound and unbothered. Motorists stay in at night. In Vegas, a motorist walked into the Bellagio, swiped a million chips, and escaped through the front doors, onto his motorcycle, down the strip. Down the strip in broad daylight. It’s a West as of yet unwon, a Bonnie and a Clyde and they’re running wild, free. The people are kind, the Christians church-goers. And there is always more work to be done. The shed, painted. The letterheads, printed. If only the weather would change. If only the clouds would disperse; beauty like this is too overwhelming to persist. Life is too old for persistence. There is nothing left to endure. It has been endured; it has persisted. It is the familiarity of inertial descent, but no one is left to be lonesome, and no one is left in the cold. Fires run all night, the burners crackle. Heavily drawn curtains resist the dashing wash of time, and each is to his own, no other.

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