Nearly twenty-two, twenty-two going on 1,000, twenty-two going on ten, I watch a blaze of fire burn its way into the sky, that startling shade of flame-blue that looks as if it should belong to deep cold instead of the hottest of flames. Trying to draw in a full breath, looking at the mundanity (I think I just coined that word) of dull knitting needles and sharp mystery novels the avalanche of me that lays across the back seat, fear washes up in a wave through my chest waking the aching slumber in my bones a sharp spike of undiagnosed dread. If questioned Stabler-style or gentle-but-asking I couldn’t tell the reasoning from inanity. Why’s are for those born with a mind tuned to surety, I’ve no such possession. Just a million questions and very few answers I would swear to. I worry too much, so I know, and so I’m told often and with either worry or condescension. So, I worry too much. Fact. Or something of that sort. Right now, I see startling blue eyes roguish brown ones, a couple whose color evades me. I shouldn’t be thinking on any of them so hard, but such is life, tough break kid. Grow up, existentialism’s for suicides, fantasy is for children, madness is for geniuses pain is for those with real reasons. Maybe I’m addicted to pain, not just the literal, the disposable scalpels I bought at twenty and the Rudolph-bright trails I left behind in their honor, no, no, gotta find the emotional rejects and then roll around in the dirt with’em like a dog with a stinky deer-skin. Gotta feel every thing like a one-two punch even if I shouldn’t. Well, I did, so don’t tell me I shouldn’t, because that simply isn’t very efficient. I just can’t apologize anymore, can’t keep soft-shoeing around everyone in my life. I’m angry, alone, surrounded, overwhelmed, underwhelmed, wondering what it is to be whelmed, exactly, I’m a curious soft-nosed puppy, kitty-cat clawed woman-child trying to figure out the future while tripping over the past. I’ve got a facility for words and a penchant for film, a tendency to overstress; to under-elaborate, to flail my hands when I talk like a queen at a Cher concert; I sometimes go numb, bad genetics and overexposure, I’m a flake and loyal as a lab, I’m a lot of things, mostly contradictory, An idiot savant, dangerous and gentle, overly critical and unwilling to forget, overly accepting and too willing to forgive, queer as a carnival and surrounded by heteros, I can give as good as I get, provided I remember to protect myself, I self-medicate, can’t meditate, and wish I could find a drug to blast my mind clear, I’ve got four tattoos, betcha can’t find ‘em when I’m dressed, mostly people just don’t know what to do with me, like most people just too many things at once and not enough boxes. I’m not as self-obsessed as my poetry makes me sound but I just can’t seem to figure myself out and since I’ve got to live with myself somehow it seems important. So this here’s my shot in the dark, words blending into nothing trying to still the constant pounding of my modern life a flash of fire against the stillness of the night.