The bells are hanging heavy like my old-man balls. They swing (low, sweet chariot) just a bit when I go from this room into another. They make good use of the loose-fitting sweats that, when I move, might tickle the hairy scroti with the comfort of old cotton. Fuzzy dice and fuzzy logic: I am fifty years old and still superstitious, a little. I want something, someone, to divine the finer details of my lifeline. I want to leave the scary stuff out. Tell me my fortune, but do not bore me with the familiar despair.
Everything--my nut sack, the microphone dropped down from the eaves, the bats in the belfry, the cold silent iron (decommissioned cannons and unappreciated sculptures of men with forgotten names) all are suspended in anticipation of that handful of runes. These are the vague auguries that will describe and decide the future. It is all I can muster to be patient in my waiting for the answers. It takes all the bravery in the world to ask the question, even more to believe the answers. I have barely enough faith left in me to be reverent in the presence of God. In light of this, my easy persuasions--the teas leaves, the chattering eight ball, the belligerent Ouija--all seem a naive sacrilege, an act of desperation.
People turn pages, motel keys, blind corners at foolish speeds. They turn back the blankets to make the bed's invitation. They turn green with envy, red with embarrassment, white when they see the ghosts. They turn over flat rocks to find the merciless industry of the insects and worms. Disappointed with life, with the lost legacy of lives spent, they turn over, restless in the grave...
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