The Burning Kite

What a thing it would be, if we all could fly. But to rise on air does not make you a bird. I’m sick of the hiss of champagne bubbles. It’s spring, and everyone’s got something to puke. The things we puke: flights of stairs, a skyscraper soaring from the gut, the bills blow by on the April breeze followed by flurries of razor blades in May. It’s true, a free life is made of words. You can crumple it, toss it in the trash, or fold it between the bodies of angels, attaining a permanent address in the sky. The postman hands you your flight of birds persisting in the original shape of wind. Whether they’re winging toward the scissors’ V or printed and plastered on every wall or bound and trussed, bamboo frames wound with wire or sentenced to death by fire you are, first and always, ash. Broken wire, a hurricane at each end. Fire trucks scream across the earth. But this blaze is a thing of the air. Raise your glass higher, toss it up and away. Few know this kind of dizzy glee: an empty sky, a pair of burning wings.