Calliope

    "I love the spring" Alva texted.
    Fart Emoji, I replied.

The potential is there, in the cold ground. Gooey. Life ready to emerge. Can you taste it? That acrid semblance singing life's sweet salvos. An orchestra warm-up, a toilet flush. Birth won't be easy, like death, but as any story worth telling, it'll be a carnal thrill ride of thrusting, emergence, triumph and ultimate tragedy. 

    "Not now" she whispered.
    "Please" was his reply, a perfect fifth lower.

Life moves forward. We turn to the sun, losing sight of the other stars, the fuckin' ego on this jagoff. I love him. James' plumber friend is expected between one to four. The birds chirp their cacophanous calmnies, twittered gossip, a Byrds song pipes in over the truck radio as I drive to Ace Hardware for some joints and hinges. The wind bites. Stings.

    "Why," Alva asked "is nothing ever rent asunder anymore?"
    "Rent's all paid up this month" I replied.

James' friends keep him from floating away. He gets pretty high and wonders where he would wander without them. Thick thighs in cheap dives perhaps, or airports without security. A new dawn, a new year, it's still the same old story so why not spice it up by learning Polish or recapturing romance? Instead he goes to the shooting range and leaves feeling empty pocketed. Goes back to get his phone.

    "Here's yr problem right here."
    "Guess all that shit does catch up with you."

The plumber tells me there are thirty-thousand toilet related injuries each year in America alone. We ride the calliope-accompianied carousel, de-spite the rain. Laughter arrives like an old friend, slipping on a wet floor. Suppose the requisite poignancy be overlooked for a moment. Forever. 

    "Cant sleep WYD?" Alva texts
    😴 I reply.

In my dream it is snowing in fine detail in the woods, but I've left the oven on. The winter woods are potential. A polyphony of mercy and grace, just merciless to the ear. The heart. The snow suffocates all sound. Minimalist repression for our steamy souls  The oven smells like roasted garlic and finality.  But there is no ending.

Rick tries to console heartbroken Ilsa with the words 'Now, now'
-Casablanca Sparknotes

'Round and around and around and around we go 
-Rihanna