Suppose these streets were yours, and mine: what would it profit us? I take up my small space, my paltry plot, and clutch the deadbolt on my gate, whispering “Thank God.” I could do much worse than stewing in safety, stirring around my apartment all through daylight and ladling into bed each night. I am not a survivor—I just keep on waking up. Wouldn’t I be mad to invite the out-there into these walls… I can watch you (and me in some other world; body) anytime, taking back these streets for a moment. Not for one red cent, but a moment that surely ends, surely.
Whose checks don’t clear in a world where these streets are yours and mine? How come all the good old music tastes sour when I’m down?
Sugar, baby, child of God, you’re still far from the heart of things. Take this with honey: the book closes early on us all. The battle lines aren’t yet drawn, and some folks will die before the fighting even starts. There’s no bloodless dream in this world. And you won’t tame no trouble keeping to yourself, but set that down for another day. You got to eat that honey ‘fore it spoils in the heat–can’t you smell the smoke coiling into the clouds where the holy things live? Even if you stay above it all, you’re still liable to choke–ain’t that just how burning works?
Stay low. These streets belong to the Earth–lay down with them. Sleep, if you can.
Kevin Garske is a 1st year Fiction student