Tuesday, January 25, 2011

Thousand: Two Hundred Sixty-Six

spiritual rain. The rain soothes everything, even the noises of the night, even the bumps in the night, even the murders and the rapes and the slow succumbing to decades of wrongs. The spiritual rain comes softly down to the world, filling open sores, smoothing out scars, pooling in the open mouths of the dead. Samuel closes his mouth. His mouth tastes awful. Where is all this music coming from? It’s like he’s lying under an orchestra that’s being strafed by jumbo jets and bombed by daft leprechauns in spangled blimps. And the band plays on. Where is my deck


Elisabeth said...

Nothing to say other than to acknowledge this wonderful writing here, Glenn.

Glenn Ingersoll said...