Thrushes warble, ghost orchids chase lotuses & on the banks of the river lay dray, waiting for chemicals to dance across the pinholed lit bluish-purple-firmament.

 

Oh, let us sink into this song. Let lyrics speak for our eyes & tongues. Hell gravity’s gone, let the bass pull us closer, inward. We are out of a long standoff and now dancing on a rooftop.

 

From city side, you. From reservation side, me. Different lives but the world did us the same, alcoholic families, “delusional truths”, & a rage filled miserable inside of us. I needed to leave my reservation, you didn’t know yours & feared leaving what you’ve known. Both stubborn/prideful, we would not let the world take more or tell us no anymore.

 

A confluence unable to hold, our stories tell of who did who wrong & we never listened. Bottles & blood litter the floor as your conscious echoes my name. Long nights of time travel always to the home I found, that I end up throwing away.

 

Sick down to my bowels, beer & your words turn up my liver & gut. Cigarettes on dry nights because drugs take my mind to a place I can’t save it from.

 

On a rooftop of given up dreams; grocery stories, clothing stories, mercantile stories, a story. We danced, aurora borealis danced, & winds watched. Oh please, let us sink into this song.

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There’s an old raven away from town, away from raves & murders. Nested low in a dying pine, from canker, in a desert. A desert barren of talking & walking, hostile to desire, & only found from only hearing a lament wail inside. As I’ve been told from other dwellers.

 

This raven had its years of treachery & unkindness. By the looks of this raven keeping it’s broken/bent bluish-purple-black feathers, something else drove the raven here. When the raven sings, the raven sings in a tongue we’ve only heard stories of from grandmothers/grandfathers. Not a song sweet of melodies & tune, it’s a harsh belt of that wail I was talking about.

 

After time spent listening, this raven, like the pine, is being eaten from infection. But the raven put the bug there, unlike this pine, & sings of knowing self-infliction. Between breaks, during breath, the raven pulls feathers out from its body. Some slide out easily, most take 3 or 4 yanks to get out. Then is when I’d hear the famous mocking laugh of ravens. In that laugh I learn the name, Epoch.

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I wish there was lightning in snowstorms.

 

Under pinholed lit bluish-purple-firmament, alone alongside ND 22, a solemn time to let your mind wonder. Shadows and brustles can pull you into irrational fearful reasoning. And/or cause you to keep you walking on tired feet.

 

Thankfully, a raven alights to my right to the yellow lines.

 

How strange,

at this time of night I've never seen birds roam the dark sky. If I was a bird, I'd be one where I die if I ever left the sky.

 

Maybe this raven saw me and thought, how strange a human sitting on the side of the road at this time of night. If I was a human I'd be home with my children and wife.

 

Why is this man on the side of the road?

 

 

Hey Epoch, let me let you in on a little something.

 

What do you want?

 

That man sitting there, that you just landed next too, he wants what you have and he knows what you want.

 

How does he know what I want? How do you even know what I want?

 

I've been around long enough to know beings like you, who wait till night to let their mind speak, to know what they want. Aren't you going to ask what he wants of what you have.

 

The almighty moon who knows everything. Just leave me alone. I don't care to know what he wants of me. I don't care for any knowledge you hold to give. Just let me be. The blood feathers didn't work, this 'ought to work.

 

Finally, a car is coming.

 

It better be a 55' Cadillac hearse.