(Talk about fire) (to be read quickly)

          Talk about fire…

                                                (fade too slowly, shut up)

This sloppy pseudo-deliberate spill all miss you right past you and I want the right

not two nights from now

but that's what you get            (that's what you get)

I seek spill all my naïve all over the place someone else almost

did I cave first?

it's not a game now she know could yes I'm yes I'm

sloppy in love yes I'm so many stupid no

only forward

talk about fire oh shit something inevitable the is this go back

is this it go you framing this go antics annoying likeness of

phantom bridges not washed out

my mouth is shut up squeak who I'm not I'm not I'm not

alright no shoe after whitewater reverence yeowwwh than it deserves

            (motor noises with mouth)

oh more deliberate detritus you lose murmur squeak

the tone but not the substance mountains

'really' like a sneeze

            SQUEAK

we have reached the edge of the kingdom

it's messy

The ease of this blankness which is not empty space

            The ease of this blankness which is not empty space, which is absence into which I sink my teeth and I pull away with nothing still between them. I pull away with the ease of emptiness, which, having spoken, cannot hold still. Poke it again to see if it still hurts. It still hurts. Poke it again to see if it responds. It responds. Cry out again to see if it is listening. It still hurts. Cry out again to see if it still hurts. It responds. The window flaps open and the roar of motorcycles on the highway deadens the moment. The window hinges creak and the silence is momentary. The window blows closed. The roar of motorcycles continues to annoy. And some other sounds, voices drift by. Just try to hold on, hold on.

            Another instance, in which you were just there. You were there eighteen years ago, conveniently also someone's age. You were there when the wall came down. You were there eating cake. You were there and then. You weren't. You were opening. Busy is an adequate substitute for age. I'd be black and white. And you'd be white and black. Busy is an adequate substitute for color. The picture was playing but there was no sound. Or, you just weren't there. As if a space, an indentation, could make all the difference. And it could. As if this space were an adequate substitute for difference. For another instance. For your presence, which is conveniently somewhere else. (And it could.)

            Just now, a free light show to the east, the horizon expects me. I am horizontal, the vertical expects a light show to the east, a daunting performance. Who points across several state lines to accuse me of absence. The war itself is not over but missing, the news site assures me. So what have I got to lose?

Someone else's music

Someone else's music floats through the edge and the dogs bark window telling you something like "what is a sprawler?" It's someone who goes like this:

(Embodiment of sprawl. Illustration of sprawl.)

Your accidental likeness recreated or, if you will, regenerated everywhere you turn; you have to choose. It goes like this:

Is it late enough to care?

Her hand in mine. Your hand in mine. My heart in your mouth.

It's not taking the edge off anything, just making me sloppy.

The decision is mine. Someone else's decision wafts through and I take a bite. Spit it out. The menu is inedible. Your words are indelible. I will hold you to them. I will hold them against you.

There is no way around it, only through it.

We set things on fire to stop the fire. Sometimes that's the way it goes. This is the easy part. I have pictures of this. This is the hard part. That's the way it goes. The fire. Your heart. My music.

It's not taking the edge off anything.

My accidental decision. Is it late enough? Other people say this is possible. Other people have words for this possibility. Other people also have small, portable pools that they put water in and splash around. Other people also have broken hearts and broken nails and broken promises and broken televisions and everything is broken but everything, like the carousel, goes 'round again. Everything makes life noisy.

The next time you can choose another animal.

The next time you can let go of the idea of getting it right.

This time I will close the window but I will not let go of your hand.