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MATT HART SUN KNOT The trucks come on like deer along the road, irregular delphiniums roaring light work. And a storm is brewing, because somewhere a storm is always brewing, and I suppose saying it that way isn't very interesting, but it might as well be here that it rains and blows the fuck-off. This morning I got up at 5:30am, and now at whatever time this is I'm still doing my job designing a variety of obliterating devices, feeling my way through the tall grass of the water towers and flying a little blind into the leafscape. I think it's important to admit that I don't know my way very well around the depths given the plethora of surfaces I have to contend with just to be a likeable version of who I might have been had I not for all these years squandered my opportunities. I wanted to be a flock of starlings when I was small and after that I just wanted to be a star. Alas, what comes and goes is always gone even in the moment it's most persistent. Nevertheless, I hold on and hold on, returning to return, combusting to confetti. Somebody give me a beer, I often blurt. It really isn't so hard to imagine the possibility that I'm the creator making everything up and that you're the destroyer bloodletting the onyx. That I may have that backwards is also more than probable. The babble in probable. The rubble and the rub. The trucks come on. The sun sidles up. I follow the breadcrumbs that nobody drops. They just appear there in the sky to throw me off. Once I had a dream of our hearts fused as one, but then I woke up in my own tangled arms. |