hungry again

Will these impressions endure? Rain blinking silver beads against the asphalt purlieu spreading beneath the balcony, lit by the swaying beams of trucklight parasitic in purchase of a night every Being's repose. Bodies skeltering up unshapely grass mounds to doors lacquered recently, gaudily masking the impertinent, rotting, stormlashed pinewood, a patina over death as deathly coating the souls passing through those thresholds. 

Some pause, pretending to remember and looking at nothing within or without before headfirst and down they trundle into the confines of these drably grey wainscoted rooms fit best for the plump bedbugs and grubs leeching the moisture and thin, unstaunched blood inside. Will the spindly tree in the northeast corner, hunkered limp under the cloying expanse of nightsky freeze as frieze in the minds of us lumbering, life-weighted people circling the warrens of timber erected here, neighbours neither wood nor man to any? 

Will it stay with me later how a minute ago this body rose vertically, a wraith, from its supine chair by a reflex reconvening after its own mysterious response to the chopping wind that gutters electric light as if appropriating for nature what man thought his? Will I remember my blind kinship with the silent quake of this night's urge?

No hunger after filaments of matter, yet how I now starve. Famished. Gnostic.

Tradition

The Mardi Gras festival gathers the emaciated destinies of the people around this region into a kind of weltering remembrance of the immortality of their cells, the stones steeped in the blood of their precedents and a precognitive alertness to the vector of life sure to follow and steep anew in whatever continuum of violence and of consequent regeneration describes the irreducible carnal reality some avow as under-girding the misdiagnosed realities of religion or society. The looming ritual meant as a bill of lading for our souls in exchange for a body long ago willingly forfeited, Easter, sparked off by this "fat Tuesday" parade, terrifies me the way all blind treks of routinized significance do--the unctuous release of hoarded joy into the commons of humanity remains hoarded in me and pulled at by the mob against my wishes; issues forth, squeezed out savagely like a ripe gourd in the fist of a manic angry child. What more mournful than the worm-bedecked comfort wrought by selflessness?