I had a girl, I named her soap. I had a soap, I named her cat. One day I played the accordion on paper, and it sounded like a birth certificate drifting into the sun, a disintegration station in a vast bewildered wilderness— which sounds like a slide whistle at first but later like the back porch flytrap I named jungle. I have never before mentioned these names in the airway, and neither has the girl I named name ever faltered— though the question of remains in the hallway remains: Does one's imagination also disintegrate, or does it flutter forever like a boa constrictor, circling the world or a warthog? The warthog I named babe; the boa constrictor I called pasture. The last time I found myself ensnared in the pastoral, I imagined a rope and escaped by climbing up it. Then I named it laminate, but I called it overwhelming. Me and overwhelming covered in skulls. One superhero to another to another. I boiled a lobster, I named it travel. I had an agent, and I named her mob. Then I took out the garbage and went running with my dog ostensibly to prove my existence, if not also my purchase. I made a purchase, I named it purpose. There is nothing so bright as a toddler on fire. We don't need no water... I named the water deathstar.
It's true that two hummingbirds singing in exactly the same pitch can shatter the blackest of mountains. But it's also true that the missiles in those mountains can shatter a hummingbird to pieces of hummingbird. The end. But this curled mess of black yarn, this series of concrete barrier entanglements, means that we have to be ready for no matter what, for whatever might befall us—hummingbirds, missiles, those drugged-out runway models. I'm telling you man, we know each other like we know the ghost knowing each other, and I'm so fucking grateful I could fly a kite about it: this terrifying state of the seasons, this half-baked smell of church. I lurch forward to go backward, awkward to go on the record. I just can't get over those blues at the window. And the tiny bit of yellow, like cats' teeth spitting sparks. How lucky we are to have light, how marvelous to scribble over fate. The reason it's good to have faith is the reason for everything good.