I sat before a fire. I talked that devil silly. Wood burning. Burning gold. We talked. Farther, farther back, we withdrew. I sat perched on my face. Alone. Soaked to the bone. It rained, poured down. The hot glow on my face. I sat before that fire, a funeral pyre. A candle, my wick, my life, burning, my mind. A spark of something new, something lost. Lost. kindling and paper. At matc struck. Petroleum products. All that goddamned junk in there. Burning. A beacon in the night to be seen. Invisible. It should be seen.
I grew up on a farm. Fat sizzling on that there stove top. Fred sizzling on that there stove top. They said if you name your animals you won’t eat them. Ha! They. I’ve proven them wrong. Name that pig they said; called him Fred. I’ve been eating Fred for a week. It’s the devil in me.
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