cicada shell

I love the open space of the Funeral Chapel parking lot at night. Earlier today, a human's cicada shell lay inside those walls, smiling, not telling the secret of where the rest of him went, after moulting.

As I buzz around this empty space, I feel sure that I'm a reincarnated soul, or a vampire - hundreds of years older than I look. Or an ant who has underestimated the weight and size of this dead beetle he is hauling around.

But I don't mind the aloneness, or the fact that this is not my season. The dead spot on my right big toe is the only remaining numbness from last year's debacle - the unfulfilled portion of the progress bar on my screen. The healing is not complete, but it is real.

Now it's gotten late. Time to flip my collar up and turn back to the house. Tonight is not the night I leave my skin behind and finally learn the secret.

cloud comin' down

Sunday morning. Not early. Not late. I'm sure well over half the city is still sleeping it off.

It would be cooler if I had a record player and could physically put the needle on the vinyl. I'll settle for connecting a USB cable to the docking station. Greg Brown is singing.

It's a messed up world, but I love it anyway. I love it.

And now, between the notes and his gravelly voice, another voice.
You are not what you were. I've been strengthening you. It might soon be your turn to do the lifting up. You are weak, you are strong. That's all for now.

Fade back to Greg Brown - strange choreography.

I try to say a prayer, return the favor, but I don't know who to address or what to call you. I get the feeling for a minute that the joke's on me. You have no name. You have a thousand names. You have no name. Why do I need you to?

I return to the song; my breath tells me I've been in a different sort of presence, though I can't put a finger on it.

I've got two little feet to get me 'cross the mountain.
two little feet to carry me into the woods.
two little feet, big mountain, and a
cloud comin' down, cloud comin' down, cloud comin' down.