I. Fireman, censor of literature and destroyer of knowledge, with his mighty flamethrower. He loves his work. He loves trouble and strife. He loves fascination with the people next door. Mostly, he loves his hammock. But sleep will be his final unrest.
II. A gift for the darkness: reading from the forbidden kept hidden in the air-conditioning duct. The walls within turn on and off like Cora Pearl. His wife listens to far winds and whispers and soap-opera cries, sleep-walking, helped up and down curbs by a husband who might just as well not have been there. They walk on as an extinguished connection. In the flickering of his eyeballs, he dreams of driving recklessly to Dover Beach and drowning her.
III. Burning bright. He is burning so brightly. In the factory of mirrors, he takes a hard look. He's a flammable book. And it's a pleasure to burn. "What are you doing?" She asks. "Putting one foot in front of another." He answers.
Freewheeling connections on belief to lead, rule, follow and support. Decided through a latent separation of sorts, the choice in course for self determination. Collective motivation from individual status, with less regimented offers of conceit. We transform when our shadows are shown, as the clarity of transparency can aid growth.
Perhaps inspiration is the problem. I have always danced with words. Blending syllables and wit Bending sentences at will. Firing ink from a loaded pen. Makes for good imagery. As I flap the pages of this notebook. Dropping tiny daggers with this tongue. Trying to master the craft of symbolism. With sarcasm. Playing with these words like hooked on phonics. Molding them into a scene. Of play on words. With less drama. Maybe even worth less. Like pay-less. As we walk in eachothers shoes. To better understand the roads we travel.