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Description
Go ahead, take the stand.

I walked in, saw her palms up the wall. She was becoming bubbles, was curved around the edge of a bubble. Her palms went first, close to the ceiling, flush as it all. I held my salt shaker. And I didn’t see it, I just felt her drop, and a little white ash.

The heat smeared onto the light of the room, orange-thin, organic.

Each way she breathed, it just came on a little more. Her exhales were its inhales; maybe if she held herself, led on to the breath of her blood, maybe the fire might’ve finished, but I can’t blame her.  I was shaking, too. I was spilling this little white luck. But her bottom fats combusted, and then they rotated, burning, burning. The heat rose so fast.

I thought she  chirped.

Fire came from her mouth and flowed through her folds and her larynx sputtered a low hum among the fire.

But the dilemma is who lit her. Things don't just light themselves- women don’t just light themselves, sir.

I never even got to rub her feet. She just wasn't there yet. She wasn't where a woman is when she needs it for her feet. I sweat. I did the sweating, always! I was melting myself on the inside! When we were done, and only her front was wet, and it was mine. She only knew one heat, it was heat. She’d smear me right on down.

I was making the sea.  All the salt on the ground and all of my own sweating wet and I would make high tide for her and I would put her out.  How she could have walked in it, I was right beside the door! Her shoes were even on her feet. But only the sea salts were in my hand and they were probably making white on the floor.

When I was small and He was the world, I stood on Jesus like the King of the Mountain. But when he disappeared, I was so big, and so heavy. Everyone else fell so natural, but I was given my gravity. They must have budded on him like the seeds inside the apple. (Their feet were lifted by a different Hymn.) Maybe He came, when the bodies were entangled. But not now, not after; He's disappeared but everyone's fallen to their own. Their feet stand together, or apart, with always one another. Like a sea urchin breathing to an asterisk, they’re all changing. Deflating, sewing backwards. Her insides disappeared like Jesus. My wife died living like all of them. And now I’m just a footnote. I'm now holding up a thousand words, made as if I need to disappear.

But, you know, what’s the knife without the hand? Who’s it to defend? Jesus disappeared, but someone was standing on Jesus when he kissed His cheek.

What am I to defend? The footnote helps the asterisk!

Maybe she found her own fire, knew she had then moved without me. I only introduced her to it.

Okay, so we’ve got the story straight. It was quiet and it was igneous. It could’ve been dark. But you smeared her right on down until you spat her out.

The heat killed the canary.

But get this, huh? My two feet were on the others. Jesus held me up and brought me down to the other's, taught me to stand with them. Taught me the breaths. Who stands with me now, in the seashore? Who’s there?

It was so hot, combined with my heat. I might have glowed. You might have known I was there. You could’ve smelled my salty sweat. She was riding on the edge of this thinning bubble, and just part of a colony. You could feel it all rolling, the churning room around the smoke.

Here, my wife's the asterisk on every television and I hold the story together. I'm the key that keeps the door together. You don't know the story if you don't know me because she's disappeared. The canary burned and the cat’s forgot. You don’t know my wife because we’re gone. And once the story's left my hands, it's out of hand. It's a bubble on burst, too high for their trouble.

Jesus is the breath, the salt. I'm a follower and I'm her fellow, her page companion.
Her feet are on the floor. They’re in her shoes, but the rest isn’t. It’s gone. They had been in the ocean just before and there, by the door, her salty feet are sitting now.

I hope there’s no salt in my shoes. That ash is no place for feet.

---

We were trying each other on for fit and comfort. I thought we could both wear pants, it’s a new age, an era of compromise and propositions. Tailors know the ways now, don’t they, I thought?  How  to fix the fit of anyone onto anyone, it’s new and fresh these days!  It’s the new age!  Someone could have stitched us back around each other.  I even tried to lose my thighs.  But in the end, the only passion I could give her was my passion for her. I introduced her, sir.  To it all.
I’ll tell you what - you tell me what! I’m just some bubble now, I’m trying to explain a bowl. I’m rounded and I think of something and it just comes back around to it and I giggle. I’m the speechless bubble, by now, fill me if you will.

We'd held back for so long, our spines were sore. Handles carry suitcases, usually. “So pack me with what you want and handle me right. The more you want to change, the heavier I’ll be.” That’s what I told her. Try to rub that in, it just smears.

Her leading end knew the heat.

---

My Myra died in her hot flash, very flushed. All I knew about was the time of day. I had decisions to be made.  Where was I that I couldn’t be?

The chair’s the only bulge. Everything else had an excuse. The armoire was rotted. The hat rack was cracked. Until the crew shows to scrape up the ends of the carpet, he’s cut a passage to his thrown.

He snuck his rod and cable to the neighbors a few feet away. The electricity was turned off in his house and he’d cut the pathway in the carpet around the wire schematic.

He’d hurriedly scheduled a consultation on liposuction, which he cancelled.

I'm riding the rim of a funnel but I don't know where it's aimed. I don’t know where I’ll fall out.

---

The judge was warm shivering. He felt the scamper over his toes. Any scratch could set a match. The tail roughed above the neck of his sock.

I do the sweating.

“Allen, make a call.” The court adjourned as he fled down the aisle. They all saw the certainty.

I spotted the shivering hand in the square of the robe, his fingers blotted to an asterisk.

Description
Go ahead, take the stand.

I walked in, saw her palms up the wall. She was becoming bubbles, was curved around the edge of a bubble. Her palms went first, close to the ceiling, flush as it all. I held my salt shaker. And I didn’t see it, I just felt her drop, and a little white ash.

The heat smeared onto the light of the room, orange-thin, organic.

Each way she breathed, it just came on a little more. Her exhales were its inhales; maybe if she held herself, led on to the breath of her blood, maybe the fire might’ve finished, but I can’t blame her.  I was shaking, too. I was spilling this little white luck. But her bottom fats combusted, and then they rotated, burning, burning. The heat rose so fast.

I thought she  chirped.

Fire came from her mouth and flowed through her folds and her larynx sputtered a low hum among the fire.

But the dilemma is who lit her. Things don't just light themselves- women don’t just light themselves, sir.

I never even got to rub her feet. She just wasn't there yet. She wasn't where a woman is when she needs it for her feet. I sweat. I did the sweating, always! I was melting myself on the inside! When we were done, and only her front was wet, and it was mine. She only knew one heat, it was heat. She’d smear me right on down.

I was making the sea.  All the salt on the ground and all of my own sweating wet and I would make high tide for her and I would put her out.  How she could have walked in it, I was right beside the door! Her shoes were even on her feet. But only the sea salts were in my hand and they were probably making white on the floor.

When I was small and He was the world, I stood on Jesus like the King of the Mountain. But when he disappeared, I was so big, and so heavy. Everyone else fell so natural, but I was given my gravity. They must have budded on him like the seeds inside the apple. (Their feet were lifted by a different Hymn.) Maybe He came, when the bodies were entangled. But not now, not after; He's disappeared but everyone's fallen to their own. Their feet stand together, or apart, with always one another. Like a sea urchin breathing to an asterisk, they’re all changing. Deflating, sewing backwards. Her insides disappeared like Jesus. My wife died living like all of them. And now I’m just a footnote. I'm now holding up a thousand words, made as if I need to disappear.

But, you know, what’s the knife without the hand? Who’s it to defend? Jesus disappeared, but someone was standing on Jesus when he kissed His cheek.

What am I to defend? The footnote helps the asterisk!

Maybe she found her own fire, knew she had then moved without me. I only introduced her to it.

Okay, so we’ve got the story straight. It was quiet and it was igneous. It could’ve been dark. But you smeared her right on down until you spat her out.

The heat killed the canary.

But get this, huh? My two feet were on the others. Jesus held me up and brought me down to the other's, taught me to stand with them. Taught me the breaths. Who stands with me now, in the seashore? Who’s there?

It was so hot, combined with my heat. I might have glowed. You might have known I was there. You could’ve smelled my salty sweat. She was riding on the edge of this thinning bubble, and just part of a colony. You could feel it all rolling, the churning room around the smoke.

Here, my wife's the asterisk on every television and I hold the story together. I'm the key that keeps the door together. You don't know the story if you don't know me because she's disappeared. The canary burned and the cat’s forgot. You don’t know my wife because we’re gone. And once the story's left my hands, it's out of hand. It's a bubble on burst, too high for their trouble.

Jesus is the breath, the salt. I'm a follower and I'm her fellow, her page companion.
Her feet are on the floor. They’re in her shoes, but the rest isn’t. It’s gone. They had been in the ocean just before and there, by the door, her salty feet are sitting now.

I hope there’s no salt in my shoes. That ash is no place for feet.

---

We were trying each other on for fit and comfort. I thought we could both wear pants, it’s a new age, an era of compromise and propositions. Tailors know the ways now, don’t they, I thought?  How  to fix the fit of anyone onto anyone, it’s new and fresh these days!  It’s the new age!  Someone could have stitched us back around each other.  I even tried to lose my thighs.  But in the end, the only passion I could give her was my passion for her. I introduced her, sir.  To it all.
I’ll tell you what - you tell me what! I’m just some bubble now, I’m trying to explain a bowl. I’m rounded and I think of something and it just comes back around to it and I giggle. I’m the speechless bubble, by now, fill me if you will.

We'd held back for so long, our spines were sore. Handles carry suitcases, usually. “So pack me with what you want and handle me right. The more you want to change, the heavier I’ll be.” That’s what I told her. Try to rub that in, it just smears.

Her leading end knew the heat.

---

My Myra died in her hot flash, very flushed. All I knew about was the time of day. I had decisions to be made.  Where was I that I couldn’t be?

The chair’s the only bulge. Everything else had an excuse. The armoire was rotted. The hat rack was cracked. Until the crew shows to scrape up the ends of the carpet, he’s cut a passage to his thrown.

He snuck his rod and cable to the neighbors a few feet away. The electricity was turned off in his house and he’d cut the pathway in the carpet around the wire schematic.

He’d hurriedly scheduled a consultation on liposuction, which he cancelled.

I'm riding the rim of a funnel but I don't know where it's aimed. I don’t know where I’ll fall out.

---

The judge was warm shivering. He felt the scamper over his toes. Any scratch could set a match. The tail roughed above the neck of his sock.

I do the sweating.

“Allen, make a call.” The court adjourned as he fled down the aisle. They all saw the certainty.

I spotted the shivering hand in the square of the robe, his fingers blotted to an asterisk.