(Joe) I hear voices at night, warning me. I can barely sleep. I can't quite understand what it is they are trying to say. they seem to be speaking from somewhere far above my head. so, to hear them, I climb over myself, stepping up over my shoulders, then pulling myself up higher, and climb some more and more.

 

finally I am so high I can no longer see the Earth below

 

above, the sky is neither black or blue, there are no stars.

 

but I am high enough. I can hear them, the voices clearly, as clear as a bell of fire, as clear as a window in the sun.

 

I hear them.

 

they are saying, "beware. stay on the ground or you will become lost, as we are. lost..."

 

(kicked in the window, threw the door behind me, and ran. still, it was no good. the air kept following me, mercilessly.

 

I tried turning corners, faster than slower, until I almost run into myself. I knew there was no hope.

 

my lungs filled my head, dying and eager for silence, the perfect breathe. the air knew I could not resist.

 

flesh is weak, but is weakness always bad? weakness serves to glorify, to ennoble, to sanctify.)

 

(gary) she always told me to stay away from the pit. she would tell me that if I wanted to keep my life from being any single color I had best be strong, and when she died I began to dig for her as well.

 

the deeper I dug the stronger I got. (my addiction shining like quicksilver along the ropes inside my arms.) I had dug so deep that all the world was a velvet black.

 

(turning even less than black.) then I unearthed the Goddess. I took the Goddess home and though she treated me badly my addiction turned from strength to love. she disappeared as I held her, the air as clear as quartz and rhythm. it was then that I noticed my thin charred arms, fading. now I go back to the hole, feeding the earth, the grave song and cinder, I go to speak with my child, like dust on a moth's wing.

 

(my flesh white pink fumbles that I am flesh. flesh is weak, flesh is weak, flesh is weak as air pushes into consume and elevate.

 

what I need is new eyes, new eyes to battle the conceit that death may be salvation, new eyes and a vacuum.

 

knowing what I want, knowing I need, the perfect air follows, carving a hunger, I sigh, gasping red and screaming, longing to breathe.)