Whispers, no assaults on my peace, equalizing of the large and the small. I once thought it pretty to lie awake in the night and hear the rain scatter on the tin roof. Tried to discover rhythms and patterns, till I realized it’s only what I put there I heard. Tonight I accuse the audaciousness of this assault. A man must defend his home.
There is fatigue in being embodied, whenever one contends with demanding tasks, like walking or sleeping. If this water won’t just flood us and drown us . . . if there is one good person in all of Sodom . . . Do you ever wake to the rain and ask, maybe I’m the plague?
Don’t get me wrong, that’s a liberation. If I’m patient zero, I’ll infect the city, waiting for the great evolutionary leap. Wood will rot, winter gardens wilt rubbery, but the bubbling out of primal stew cries for its tincture of blood.
Scott Branson is an anarchist living in Asheville, NC, where he writes, teaches, and organizes.