In my dream
they said
"Our spies
got us
this map.
We are
making a
country
of boats
so we can
float
to paradise."
But I make smoke. I scare people at the movies.
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The clean burning rage churns your blood through your veins. Your audience loves your rage because it burns so clean. You love your rage because without it your legs would twitch in spasms and scare the people sitting next to you at the movies. Your audience does not care how much your legs twitch. They love how you burn a perfect story. The bones of your sentences move like a race horse’s and the world’s focus is precise. People love the fast horses and the clear world and they love that there is no smoke.
But I make smoke. I scare people at the movies.
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In different eras, we were orphans. We went on a journey to a crowded arena. We found a leader. We burned people. Then, Redemption. History melts off like hot wax from the wick. We're trapped in the burning moon-colored space between the candle and the flame. But still the space between me and my future stretches and shimmers like muscles on a running horse. I'm glad I'm not dead. |