We Make The Soul Up As We Go

There is a list, a dead man's list, and we boldly put our names on it. Brotherhood makes a strange claim on one's loyalties. Yet not even blood on train tracks, not even a knife blade shining blackly in the moonlight, can dissuade us. Promises, my friend, promises.

I don't need directions anymore but that doesn't mean that peering into its dark eye makes me happy. She worked all afternoon putting up storm board and duct tape, only to come away with streaks of dirt and sweat and sawdust. Love has no way of showing itself outside our willingness to see. Raise the point with Jesus if you don't believe me.

Or ask what courage will do when nobody delivers the mail anymore. One feels the need to say goodbye, one feels certain ends approaching. Our bodies might be ours but the narrative sure feels like it belongs to somebody else. Mustard seeds, coffin nails, and a woman with sad eyes looking for someone to pray beside.

Absent risk, what remains for the poor to do? You throw your sack over your shoulder, turn left at about Kentucky and keep going until you hit John Steinbeck's grave. Smell of cat litter mixing with old rain. His gut hurt and he read into that what a lot of people did in those days.

Oh the ghosts I have known! If I see you you outside the veils will I recognize you? The storm created a whirlpool and the jazz pianist who tried to save her drowned in it. In a nutshell, we make the soul up as we go.