bone cairn

I live in a brick building. I come to be here through kind acts. We all do. You too. But the brick here, on the inside, has been painted. It drips with protection and drips with finality. You will be I will be you will be I will be. Some have gone insane and made it here as refuge. They will do no more in this world than finish their days. This will be a good life. Survival is a good life. I am like dust in this place. I fall upon it softly collecting history, full of mites, together with soot and make a mold like a memory, all on its surface and the surface is enough. The surface will tell you all that is needed. I want you want me I want you want me. And when I break out of this harried pansy bullshit, after Monday’s beers seep through the deep sockets of my lumpy numb liver I’ll wake up to the fear that it ain’t shit. One big loss. What can’t be erased however is the register. The one I told the girl about tonight. The one that holds a secret in Glacier Park. You’ll need to climb the peak for that. You can climb it with me. And on its summit you can find its words. And on its summit you can draw your pistol. And right there for what I’ve put you through, for what you find or fail to find, you can sink a slug square through my essentials and watch it bleed the iron out.