For the Blood Meridian or the Evening Redness in the West
January 14, 2011 2:02 am
The kid lay the pages down, his head ached from what he had read. Stories of old, faraway and foreign, of lands familiar yet as alien as those of the moon. Stories of dust and thirst, of a sun unyielding, of men both savage and calculating. The book was almost done. The kid looked up and thought how such words could exist, printed so simply, so trivial, yet contain such depth and wonder. How could a man write with such a grand view, as if he was God himself, penning all the words that were needed, no more no less, a harmony tuned to play in every manner on the cords strung inside every human heart.

The book now lay split, its spine pointing to the heavens it so eloquently dismissed. It's words groped, fondled, penetrated, yet held strong, no worse for wear. Inanimate it lay unaware of the vastness held inside it, ignorant of the humanity it drooled. The kid looked away from that damned abracadabra, how it spoke with no sound, nay, it wailed with torment, greed, savagery.

...and now, far flung echoes from black granite spires, piercing the dome, pointing to the stars above.