B. Nolty

The house sounds so much happier without me in it. I'd like to go inside, but I don't. I can't face it. I sit outside in the dark, checking the weather to see if it'll get cold enough for hypothermia to set in. It's a balmy Florida winter night, so probably not. I sip my alcohol and try to fall asleep out here anyway. Maybe if I'm lucky I won't wake up.

Finelined, wideruled, not disputed. Half mixed, half spent, all used up. Break up the twigs, make a tea from it. Howl out, shout out, stake your name on it. Big boned, half baked, whole stoned. Radical Islamic shwarma stand, banking on karma being untrue. Big packet, ball of lightning, rolling round and through the loop. Infinite, ubiquitous, like the shapes that press in on you. Angles half seen, falling asleep and making music. Cacophanous in my ears, like smoke in my eyes. It twists and falls apart on the path of everything that lay before it. Leading to that moment. And it burns. And I can barely see it. Recall the melody and it's gone. But it's there, like spraypaint lines etched on a pressure washed wall. Like everything before it. I want to eat it like icecream. Cold, sickly sweet, melting on top of gilded wafflecones. Break my teeth, still hungry.