Ben Ladouceur

The sun time of the year died out and never might return. We made fires big as coffee tables to approximate the sun. I wanted to be a mountain. I wanted us all countless mountains in a detailed painting. Blood is everywhere as always. But now it is blown further and oxygenated for longer. Yet more sad word has come digitally. We contain no blood with which to soften and warm the sad word. Cold wind placed and places the house in its mouth. We met the end numb and almost still. Number meant less motion meant even number meant totally still. The buildings stand still. The buildings still stand. The buildings like the builders take each other by the hand.

Last time I had stamina and calluses and a bag of chalk. It hung from my lumbar like a bunny tail. Last time I was lighter and the ether better-emptied. Now blood is so close to my surface I slip off the walls. Tonight is the night of a massacre I do not look at. Although I have been to that city of bricks and black blooms. Therein I kissed a grave a million others kissed. A woman with a cigarette asked me for fire there and I provided it. I had been asked for light before but never fire. Tonight I climb three hundred stairs toward the light of my device. Maybe we’ll be wartime people leading wartime lives. Skirmishes have sprung from the heads of lesser gods. This is the light no one reads by we just stare into it. We wait for the glyphs that mean it is safe.