Every surface craves dust, for dust is the flesh of time

Consecrated space, true, but not like what you would think, or fear, when the quotation marks bracket the sacred. Different horses for different courses, and no harm in being illegible to what denizens of alter egos and deifying motives would take for worship.

I sing for my supper with a foamy sophist’s mouth, whored out to the highest bidder whose cause cashes out and whose end to be achieved can be cajoled into a talking point and zealously curated. Masked clout, claimed suction, intimated access to a personage behind the curtains - what hangs together is the appearance of the ability to deliver. That is the coin of the realm in the schizoid souk that sits in the middle of this city and stands out like a solitary star against the deep dark blackness of this nowhere. This besieged city surrounded in all directions by section line roads no one travels down that serve no purpose beyond framing in a grid the endless unharvested cornfields, clattering in the wind.

But back to consecration:  in the quiet of late night this pervading lack may pass for what self-help tomes would deem restorative.  Pay no heed that I’ve never once been mindfulness, never once succumbed to the hard husk of suffocating love. the universal standard bearer is a television strapped to the chest of a median voter.  It’s not for nothing that Parnassus isn’t mapped or couldn’t be.