19 February 2017

Postcard 81

You must first have grace to be disgraced.
Each morning we awake and scan the far horizon, knowing what is coming without hope: bomb blast, dark synthetic cloud, dull false air. But look, the sun yet rises. But look, we too arise and kick our dirty feet to dirty floor and appraise each others' hanging bodies in gritty light. I put on cracked work boots and you creak into kitchen, spark fire for coffee, tea. Each day we share a coffee-bitter moment before the yelp and stomp of kid and dog, and we appraise: with horizon always rushing over us, we are hardly winners but we have not lost.
We refuse the game.
Though each day ends in slow collapse and starts in a more tired tired, we have the grace of looking on, the wet eyes, the crying smiles of 'this is serious'. The laughing supersede of adding up, of well clanking words of 'this is why'. We speak the sounds of this home in its settle, fade and flake, the carpet wear of sheltered guests, our broken friends, each and every one -- like us -- a refugee, each a thousand small lines of frailty. We cut our hands in murky sinks of broken glasses. We go down each night laughing in small moments grasped with sometimes liquor sometimes sex. With drugs not dull but bright. Though we rise each morning scanning, the sun grows dim. The poison is mete incrementally. The smoke obscures but we wise graceful and, weary, try. We speaking honest. We coughing blood -- you and me, our friends, dream family.
You must first gotta have soul to be sad.

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