Once upon a bird caught fire, there was a criminal. Thousands of trees were his mind. At night, the tiniest stars dared to speak to him of whims beyond the snap and crick of fights. In the end, one very good death is what burned the entire place to the ground. I nearly pissed delight to see sunshine leaping about between them, all so fast and likeable.

There was no wall or we went right through it, carried by velocities undreamed of. The vehicle obliterated itself against the portal, and it rained little animals once more. My thigh was a bible of dead worlds, ancient languages gone to dust; the whole moment tilted away from permanence into drawn blood. This happens to be my declarative: to wonder past the sign.

Inside, I feel from worlds into absolute memory. Everywhere I looked, death had some living mirror that made my knees turn to iron and war. I had been promised destiny. I received a small receipt whose markings were at best indistinct and at worst indecipherable.

Back on the bed a small child wagers against god and fucks the sky. His vigor and rage are more pure than intellect. Then he’s gone. There are traces in the sheets. Trails of warmth were recent heartbeats called forth life, and the mystery of where it all went.

I can hear the whisper of dead heartbeats in every fucking radio. What you call stations, I call the monster. And I eat it like candy while you can’t even tell.