Mudlark No. 47 (2012)

Fail-Shine and the What Nothing Today

It was enough to be moving forward. Through sycamores and waterthrush,
quilted to where the corn fires churned, the unmappable arcs of indecision.
Thicker in Choctaw than it is in next pay day, root mead the freshest shout 
to cull fail-shine.  We are without axes, lost beneath the muttering sun-leak 

sun, this is stumbling, and blind furrows but like shunt water we will return. 
The Empty is what makes the meal, and we’s hungry, hungry for a plateful
of what nothing today. Wood goblins tuck squat in higher branches pissed
there’s less crutch here than they’d been told, scratch faction, and today we 

will be served, today we either hit on Coin’s clearing or it’s boots-up under 
us all. The long slow howl into the sideshow ruin of ourselves, what’s left
except the shill. Tie me off to the last dray horse, Chollie, tie me to the got
damn rain, all took broken on bare cob Monday, fuck it, just cook the cans.

Jeffrey Little | The Nicaean Stomp
Contents | Mudlark No. 47 (2012)