Once I could pass my finger through a flame dream of a place where the trees have leaves and the nights are cool. I sing my dirges eight to the bar think of mordant leaves, all moisture gone the arch of the cat dealing death to the bird raccoon skin hung on a tree and suicide. When the professor killed himself it didn't make the newspapers. The crickets chirped as he sipped his brandy although he couldn't hear them with the window rolled up and the motor running. Perhaps pompous little men kill themselves every day and are buried as the moon shines in the daytime sky. And the suicide girl, drained skin colder than clams, animal eyes dropsy girl, despair too deep for pain dead two weeks later lifeblood let from open veins down the drain of her gleaming bathtub leaving me poised on the tip of a metaphor. The sound of a piano is on the wind, and the smell of violets. If only I could do a time step. I conjure midgets and deaf people who sing with their hands: Transcendentalists, transsexuals, Transylvanians and women with beards, dwarfs who live in trailers and do handstands for good money. It's not the monsters I fear; I receive lightning on my own scaffold strain against my own bonds to make whole again my monster self. I am afraid I will forget my own secrets. I watch for shining rats' eyes in the dark as I wait for morning.
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Warren Wedin firstname.lastname@example.org