SHOOTING HOELSHER

by Deborah L. Reed

JOURNAL ENTRY, WEDNESDAY

I'm thinking of killing Hoelsher. With a gun. Shooting him right in the head. I don't even care if I get caught--it would be worth it to get that loopy grin off his face.

Hoelsher lives next door and a more obnoxious neighbor can scarce be found. For one thing, he makes a lot of noise, although nobody but me seems to mind. A good five days out of seven I find myself once again begging him to please, please, please stop the racket. I've called the cops several times, but they always take Hoelsher's side—he's got that sappy, “I love everyone and everyone loves me” kind of personality that allows him to get away with just about anything. So the noise continues and apparently I can't do a thing about it. I can't even find peace in my own house. You can see, Dear Diary, how a thing like that would eventually build up? How it would make a man start thinking about the gun in his closet?

JOURNAL ENTRY, THURSDAY

Hoelsher took not one, but two, walks today. These walks are particularly annoying to me because he parades up and down my section of the sidewalk. He does this on purpose because he knows the very sight of him makes my blood boil. Often he pauses in front of my house to visit with one of our other neighbors. “Look how popular I am” is the implication here. Well, those people would like me too if I weren't constantly having to cope with him.

So I'm sure you can understand, Dear Diary, how upsetting it was to see him take, not only a morning walk, but an afternoon one as well. Is this going to be a daily thing? For Hoelsher's sake I hope not. That gun is looking better and better.

JOURNAL ENTRY, FRIDAY

Well, today I came close. I almost did it. Shoot Hoelsher, I mean. I discovered that he's the one who has been stealing my newspaper; although why I didn't realize it sooner I don't know. I saw him with it this very evening when I went to the backyard to ask him once again to keep the noise down. After seeing the newspaper-my newspaper-beside him and seeing how he had so carelessly mistreated it, I went into the house with the full intention of getting my gun. But reason prevailed—it was only a fifty cent newspaper--and I made a call to cancel my subscription. I'll have to buy one on my way to work every morning, but at least Hoelsher won't be getting a free paper. Do the other neighbors, the ones who think Hoelsher is so great, realize he is a thief? I'd like to inform them of this fact, but it would probably just alienate me further.

JOURNAL ENTRY, SATURDAY

Well, Dear Diary, I did it. I got my gun out. This time when I called the cops they said it was too early to enforce the noise ordinance and refused to even come talk to me. That was the final straw. I went to the closet, retrieved the gun and went to the back yard. Hoelsher came up to the fence, acting all congenial, although he must know I detest the sight of him. He didn't even look scared when I aimed the gun at him, that's how stupid he is. My hands were shaking so hard I could barely hold the gun and it took me a while to get the safety off. Hoelsher didn't even wince at the click it made. He just looked me with those soft puppy eyes of his and gave me a little grin. The idiot looked happy to see me, even though I was pointing a gun at him. He wagged his tail and gave a little woof and that's when I realized I just couldn't do it. I engaged the safety and walked back into the house. Dear Diary, I hate to tell you this, but shooting Hoelsher is no longer an option.

history and sterile vegetables

by David McLean

history washes over them,
sterile vegetables asserting empathy
and inventing ethics,

making extravagant assertions
about mental states,
though i never noticed

they were wearing them like flags
on their hats, they seemed to be bodies,
numb and more or less ugly -

and that was that

Night Fishing

by Ailill

June bug, itching skin.
Moon eye lights up the sky.
Casting out our lines,
reeling them in.

Remember when?
Left unsaid.
Listening to the rippling
lake instead.

Minds hypnotized,
Lost to the passage of time.
Trying to catch those past dreams
in the silence between.

Then, it seemed
we had destiny on our side.

An 8 second joy ride,
youth's pride.

Now,
how do we find our way back
up that dark path?

"It is incomprehensible that people think life is comprehensible.“ Norris Benjamin

by Felino A. Soriano

Words
affirm constipated meaning. Lack
of resulted metaphoric muscular strain,
portends infantile insults
of the following’s proclamation:

staged sophists, camera-ready
pilgrims, desolate land-conquer
absolute, posit dialect misunderstandings.

Found on
walls of absent-body residence,
beautified cracks
shaping museum-angled
wonder, misunderstood.

Upon arrival, a single
singular-concept category of man
attempts to spackle
the open bodies of beautiful cracks.

Saying “blemishes ruin home of merriment”. The
ignoramus
throws boomeranged insults of the reflectional self,

for not finding fortune in the home of self,
one allows antiquated feelings to be covered, softly,
and the hands of the coverer
go unpunished, continued attachments
to the mind’s uninformed
allure.

Rain Drops

by Mike Meraz

rain drops
like a thousand nights before.
nothing has changed.
"nothing ever changes,"
he said to me two days ago.
his vacant words
hit dimly on my soul,
like a lie, or a half truth
that wants to be made whole.
"it changes," I thought,
and moves
and breaks
and turns
and even feels pain.
but you refuse to accept it,
to feel it.
it is easier to say,
"nothing ever changes."
to let it ride,
to give in,
to allow it to take hold,
while you ponder your mistakes,
the ones you have made
over and over again.
it is easier to swallow booze,
to take drugs,
to drag on the cigarette,
to turn on the TV
and forget
how it all has gone wrong.
it is easier
to stand by the butcher block
and turn to the young man
half your age,
full of hope and dreams,
and say to him,
with your jaded wisdom,
"nothing ever changes."

hell it does!

as this angry pen
hits this flinching paper,

hell it does!

FIRST HIKE OF THE YEAR

by Mather Schneider

She bends her knees like a paper deer
into the tiger-stripe shadows
on the forest floor,
slides down pink
petal-thin panties
and drops tiny champagne piano keys
onto the earth.
I pull her to me
before the froth can settle, shake wild
salt onto her tongue
and shove my stiffened taste into
the coveted nerve between
the two perfect halves
of spring.
She reaches out to the old rough skin
of an oak tree and tries
to shove it over and ride it
down the sheer face
while from my
cramped toes I shoot
ropes of snow
into the hot syrup of
our blood.
Sometimes it feels
so good to
get away from
the city
and into
the mountains.

The Morning After

by Chris Butler

The morning after
I
forget last night.

The morning after
I
awake covered
under her blood;
reaching for the
silver .44 beneath
my unleaded head,
with each chamber
full of malicious
intent, as my thinning
eyelids close but still
envision red, despite
the sun rising upon
my nightmares.

The morning after
my
skin pinches
itself to induce
consciousness.

The morning after
I
have a hangover.

The morning after
we
awake together.

The morning after
my
dreams never come
true.

The morning after
I
forget to remember
her name,
referring to her
only as babe.

The morning after
she
swallows the pill
with a puddle
of palm water,
as I counteract
cottonmouth
with a cup of
dust encrusted
whiskey.

The morning after
I
neglect to remember
urination after ejaculation
to prevent
urinary tract infections.

The morning after
she
showers and I
consider joining
her, yet deciding
to stay asleep
until she leaves.

The morning after
she
exits, pecking my
turning cheek.

The morning after
I
embrace a frigid
pillow case.

When I awake she
has long ago arrived
for her nine to five
in the same ensemble
she wore the
day before, as
I circumcise
my latex
foreskin.

The morning after
I
fear she’s periodically
late
despite our prior date.

The morning after
that
she doesn’t call.

The morning after,
bored,
I sext her pictures.

But
the morning after
the
next I forget her number.

Pillow Talk

by Gordon Mason

I turn to read your note
left on Tuesday’s pillow.

The words have pale skins
of ghosts in satin.

Tears from buds
behind the confessional grill

of my eyelids.
You are only visible in your words,

your scent, your absence.
I hold this knotted jewellery

of emotions in my hands.
I press my nose into your perfume

and read until the last sentence
takes my breath away.

The Car

by Avery Oslo

It’s old, ugly and earwax-colored.

“She’s dependable. I put the new engine in myself.”

It probably can’t even go faster than 40.

“I know it’s not what you wanted, but it’ll get you to school and back.”

I don’t know what he expects me to tie to those hunter’s rails.

“It can withstand anything.”

Except the laughter of the kids at St. Mary’s.

“I hope you love it as much as I did when I was your age.”

He’s giving me his car?

“Take good care of her. She’s seen a lot.”

Because he loves me.

Contusions

by Len Kuntz

The sky is such a beautiful bruise of brutal blue-metal-pink. It reminds me how there can be loveliness in pain, that even art is a kind of contained torture. Uncertain, I look to the horizon while pangs of hope spike my heels the way my feet will tingle when they fall asleep, go numb.

In the morning you visit early before the family comes. Your kisses are light like moths upon my bandaged wrists, your breath syrupy in my ear. You say, “We can make it.” You tell me, “Nothing’s so bad,” and I close my eyes, hearing the unblemished beauty of your promise new for the first time, taking your fingers in mine, holding on, believing.

Houdini

by Robert Vaughan

We're having beer
at Von Trier when
Vinny calls me
Felix, a far cry from Frank.
What did you say?
I ask. A pit

grows in my stomach
excited but morbidly aghast.
Focus on the
far wall.
Fake paneling.
Cuckoo clock.

Adjust my package.
Chalk it up to
Trappist beer. He is
quiet, hums, so I try a
direct angle:
Who the fuck is Felix?

The lines on his forehead
bulge. He stares like
I am Houdini. None
of your business, he fumes,
what the hell is
this, an investigation.

Mad World

by Sandy Benitez

It's Halloween
and I'm attending
a masquerade ball
dressed as a Geisha.

Zombies saunter by,
leaving trails of toilet
paper and irritating moans.
Vampires offer me glasses

of bloodwine
but I politely refuse.
Ask if they have Saki
instead. One hisses at me

and I check his bottom
for a tail. The clock
strikes midnight
and suddenly the room

is spinning, no disco lights
to be found. A skeleton
approaches me, smelling of
sulfur. Says he'll show me

Hades for a copper penny.
With a wicked grin
I tell him we're already there
and all the madness

is completely free of charge.

PROTOCOL OF A NEW AESTHETIC

by Howie Good

Take a fur-lined cup,
crack one blue eye like an egg into it,
the wet snores of philosophy,

until a brown haze envelops everything
you see (by you, I mean me),

closets of children’s clothes,
an old-fashioned summer garden,

then just when the panic picks up speed,
the air convulsing for your pleasure,

reverse the words inscribed on the heart
of the sailor crucified in the rigging,

and there’ll be shadows like daggers,
birds eaten by the sky,
big flames in lieu of flowers.

Bridge Builder

by Gordon Mason

A snell wind chips
its words into my head
like a stonemason.
If I build a bridge

to the warm scarf
of your arms,
the sky can blow out
and we shall stand

on the edge of space.
Mountains on the moon
will segment in orange
and in their thousand folds

our truths will lie.
We will gaze on a future
sketched in turquoise seas.
Like a prodigal boat

we will moor in a cove
known only to us
and I can die
quiet in your wrap.

Modus Operandi Part I

by Morgen Streur

Yeah I'm not just sayin' it I'm livin' a vivid dream
-I'm not just playin' I created a crazy team
A mixtape's last on my list to do
I run 2 companies work for 2 more,
I'm only 24 but yes a true boss
Never used brute force yet I will if I must as a last resort
wordsmith movin' far ahead of my thoughts,
if your lady likes me take away the if quick
you're bein' double crossed,
Hot sauce,
I'm a double O agent
- Cue the Molotov cocktails,
"Mazel Tov!"
leave em shakin', not stirred
- My word is Bond, James
Don't forget my name is John Wayne,
Dont let my music confuse you,
It's a grown man game, who is you?

Scattering of Migrations

by John Swain

Scattering of migrations,
blue movements flood
as every bird becomes the sky
and every fish becomes the wave.
We rain
into the unceasing horizon
where sunset halves the world
in silhouette of man and woman.

Sexual Congress and the Post-consumer

by Melanie Browne

I
swallow all of
your post-
consumer
fibers

I became one
with all
of your
post-consumer
dreams

We lie
together,
post-coital

two post
consumers
watching
the stars
mingle in
the post-consumer
night

Drawers

by Steve Prusky

He places the
day’s possibles
in the top dresser drawer;
pens, keys, change,
money clip, wallet,
barely readable
notes scratched out
on wadded napkins,
in the order they’ll be
robotically retrieved
the next morning
when there is no
time to search.

Slumped on the
edge of the bed,
shoes, pants, shirt
are shed in trade
for sweats, slippers,
a stained t-shirt
he’s worn all week.
Then, the sigh,
the deep breath
swelling from within
his reminiscences of
the day’s events
that later claw raw
his restless sleep.

Last night’s verbal
battle with his wife,
how the mortgage
should be paid,
his son’s plea for
money toward the rent,
the flat tire that made
him late for work,
which conflicts won
out-weigh those lost,
Will he be vested
before lay-offs?
What drawer do
all those go in

After the Flood

by Jessica Otto

i.

Perhaps this will be the storm that kills me.
Froth and flux
of river’s riptide
rise from your rocky banks
and flood this whole damn town.
The darkening sky
makes the trees smell much greener
before the glutting of the tide
and the tumble down.

ii.

While Noah’s sighs
polluted the ruddy beach littered with the bones
of heretics, their livestock
and other land predators the women did what had to be done.
While he thanked god
for the early warning, the strong timber and that he wasn’t
part of the slaughtered multitude
the women did what was expected. They walked around him
like he was just another
corpse, bobbed like spring flowers in a sunny afternoon,
rooted around piles
of driftwood and soggy cloth, picked out the useful things
and made camp.

iii.

I closed my eyes and
remembered an image of nature:
the rushing creek bloated

with a river’s flood water;
the one my car floated down
transfixed in a moment of joy

at the thought of becoming a boat.
I opened my eyes and the deluge,
in bouleversement, convulsed

over Tennessee like a vengeful
spirit, holding no redemption or promise
of a beatific purge.

The Dumbest Things I Ever Heard

by Melanie Browne

When I
Was a kid

Authority figures
Always gave advice

Mr. Rogers gave advice on
“Friendly" and
“Helpful” people in my
Neighborhood

Smokey the Bear
On fire safety
“Only you can
Prevent forest fires"

The five food groups
What to say to the new kid
In school

And other
Useless crap
Along the years.

So much inane
Garbage
Soaking into
My ears as
I slept

Making its
Way into
My brain.

Yet Smokey the Bear
And Mr. Rogers
Have never made
An appearance
In my dreams

Only the celebrities
Get that far.

Malawian Cafe

by Juliet Wilson

It's a mud-built cafe
on the dusty corner
of a village alley.

Dark inside and cool
despite the day's hot sun,
lively with laughter
and warm conversation.

The menu is simple:
bean stew and nsima;
chicken with rice;
Coca Cola, Fanta
and Carlsberg greens.

The walls are covered
with postcards
of its namesake
The Ritz.

Thursday Night on the Metro

by M.P. Powers

When the train stops at Blanche, an old man sidles
aboard. He's wearing a dark motheaten fleececoat and
   has an accordion slung over his shoulders.
He peers around, the brim of a battered fedora
shading his heavylidded French eyes. The eyes of an artist.
The door closes; we lurch forward and he begins
   with an old Parisian song. His fingers frolicking
about the keys; fingernails broad and shining like tiny
   clamshells. He sways about the hips, beats softly
time with his foot, and when he finishes his two
minutes of wondrous music, he draws a small leather cup
out of a case. He gives it to the lady beside him; she looks at it
   with disdain and passes it on.
It goes to the front of the train and comes back
   around, still empty... He returns it to
its case and sits down, resting the accordion on his knee.
He slumps over a little bit. Meanwhile, the train jostles along,
moving us all
   through the night; the tired, the spiritless. All of us,
huddled together,
   without music, barely alive.

The Beggar

by Felino A. Soriano

The beggar
brought to the home of his doormat hands
nothing
nothing tangible of the edible
concept,
brought
though hope of the anti hankering:

cease, research, theories
of literature
-based realities
prosodic enhance
teaching to function the legs of lying-down-daily

to corrupt this sanitized stillness

search
search
among the flying variables

landing worms and mouth-constructed
nests
our sacred
rebuild in materialization.

"Classic"

by Parker Tettleton

"I love you.”

“Night.”

Back at the screen door she answers “What?” I stand under her nose and say “Box is out of juice.” Inside she sits me on the black and white polka-dotted sofa we make love around here and there. “Sheets,” she wants to know. “Only in winter,” I say, “but not tonight.” The hall door closes. I take the two round burgundy pillows and stack them under my neck. Snow and sweat dry at my mustache. At two o’clock I trace my hands over pieces of furniture until I reach the kitchen sink. ’92’s running. She’s in the middle of the front seat. Faucet’s dripping. She could be asleep she’s so still. The handle lands halfway down the garbage disposal. One headlight blinks back at me. Classic.

ON THE BANKS OF THE RILLITO

by Mather Schneider

This river is dying
it is just a dry
twisted
gash in the desert.
There is not even any mud under
the low rocks
for the javelinas to wallow in.
But when the monsoon rains
come in the hot belly-dancing dream
of summer
like laughter from the
hills
dangerous laughter
loud and wet and spraying your face
everything
is transformed.
It swells and calls
itself a river again,
not a wash or a gash or
a memory, it jumps
from symbol to something
infectious and messy, sand flows
wolf the banks
like cake, the savage
joy of it
with that pulse of
rapid change that passes
for meaning to a
grateful
dried up human
being.

They Really Work

by Catfish McDaris

The hunter was intent
staring down the barrel
of his rifle at the biggest
trophy buck he'd seen

Taking a deep breath
he took up the slack
on the trigger

Aiming for the heart
he squeezed gently
only to hear
click click click

The deer bounded
into the forest

Unloading his gun
the frustrated hunter
discovered he'd loaded
a roll of lifesavers.

The Journey

by Pat St. Pierre

You took me on a journey -
I was scared – but tingling.
Longing to experience you,
also frightened at your touch.
I was awkward,
you were patient
with me. Slowly leading me.
Soon urgency took hold;
unsure of myself
I tried to imitate you.
Your body became still;
girl-child no more.

FAMILY

by Devin Streur

Organic chemistry tells of
Molecules bound in time
& combustible... unstable.

Attracted & repulsed
alternatively --
We push and pull

Comets in the aether, or
Orbiting spheres of

The music: a map of
sheets, tossed. We're
Jealous & angry, unwillingly

Following paths laid out
beyond our comprehensions
Frequencies changing
Frequently

The terrain shifting
beneath us.

SLOE GIN

by Daniel Harmon

Her mouth says no
Cause her momma told her so
Yet her body
Still says yes
With precise restraint

Her dress and her moves
Fit all the right grooves
But the lipstick says
It won't get smeared tonight

Then she hits the sloe gin
And so completely caves in
That her lips will part
As gently on her face
As they do between her legs.

Houseboat

by Robert Vaughan

There is more than
water that concerns
me. The trill of slow
rocking, lilting,
rolling. Aurora
Borealis flashes in
the fire-worked sky,
a candlelight lamp
drips wax onto
your body. The memory
of the carcass weighs
heavily on the nape
of my neck. Wooden,
chained with responsibility.
Is it better to
forgive than to forget.

Lazy Eye & Tumbleweeds

By Melanie Browne

Once while buying chocolate milk in a convenience store in Raton,
I met a man with Lazy Eye.
Maybe it was Evil Eye (it’s all a little fuzzy now) .

He was wearing a faded camo jacket.
He held a hand in front of his eyes to shade the sun.
He said “hello.”
I told him “I’m from Texas.”
I tried not to stare.

He told me to watch out for the tumbleweeds,
He said
If the wind was strong enough and the sun hot enough,
They would literally catch on fire, little balls of flame bouncing across the highway.
He showed me the scars to prove it.

“There,” he said, pointing at his eye.
“Here too,” he lifted up his shirt,
Pointing at the mutilated skin on his stomach.

I drank my chocolate milk and pondered quietly for a minute what the man had said.
I decided it was probably bullshit,
But I thanked him for the advice.

Advice for a World Losing Tongues

by Devin Streur

Quit your job
Get a new one
Lay up off
Get out of my grill
Pronounce my name right
Stay out of trouble
But piss people off
Don't compete when you know
You can't win
Fight for survival
Get bloody messy
Angry hungry
Unsentimental
Ditch the bedframe
Sleep on the ground
You were built for

Existential Hitchhiking

by Chloe Caldwell

“I always get my period when we hitchhike,” I told my brother.

“That’s nice,” he said.

“No. It’s shitty.”

“Oh. Okay.” He wanted to be done with this conversation.

“I think it means something though,” I told him, feeling bored and feeling bold. I was trying to get a rise out of him.

It worked. He looked at me from over his shoulder:

“Why does hitchhiking always have to be so existential---“

“I know!”

“----With you? No Clo, only with you.”

“Oh...”

“This isn’t what hitchhiking is like with other people.”

“Oh.”

It was six in the morning and we were tired. It was August and it was humid. My brother was beyond irritated with me, and for good reason. He was hitchhiking with me to Paris from Berlin because I didn’t know how to do it alone. He didn’t feel like doing it. Neither did I. We hadn’t even spoken for months. Instead of living with him and making art and music, I’d decided to erase myself and stare stoned out of a window.

Luckily though, we only had to hitchhike to a small town in Germany, where a friend of a friend Pablo was going to meet us with his car and drive us all the way to Paris. We couldn’t wait to sleep for hours.

Then Trevor got a text from Pablo. He’d decided he needed to get on the road early. He left without us, even though he’d told us to meet him at nine am.

Buying a flight out of Paris to New York because it was cheap seemed exotic when I purchased it in June. In June, we’d been excited about the quest. Now we just wanted to go back to bed. Now we were on the side of the road unprepared to hitchhike for two days. We had half of a baguette that Trev had baked and thirty-five cent Brie that was melting in the sun. Ooh la la.

My brother didn’t let it go. I hated him when he acted this uptight.

“No, really though, Clo. I’m curious. Why do you think when we’re standing on the side of the road trying to get a ride, why do you think that’s the best time to analyze your life?”

“I don’t know. Cause’ it feels weird to be standing on the side of the road. Like we’re outside the world.”

“You should be putting your energy into getting a ride.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay, but you do it every time.”

“Sorry.”

“And take your Ipod off.”

“It makes me dance and look friendly.”

“It makes you look rude.”

“We always get a ride when I put it on and dance. Remember? And they can’t even see it from the car.”

“It’s rude. Put my guitar in front of you; it’ll make you look pretty. People like girls that play guitar.”

“I don’t know what to do with my life.”

“Ahhhhh shut up.”

“But I don’t!”

“Hey, didn’t you have to clean yesterday? If you wanted to, you could use the euros you made and just buy a bus ticket to Paris. They’re about 65 euro.”

“I didn’t go clean yesterday. I don’t have any extra money.”

“Why didn’t you go?”

“I was tripping on acid.”

“Jesus Christ, Clo.”

“What’d you say?”

“Take your damn Ipod off!”

“It makes me look friendly!”

“It makes you look rude.”

“It makes you look rude.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Stop copying me.”

“Stop copying me.”

“ I’m serious Clo.”

“I’m serious Clo.”

“What are we five years old?”

“What are we five years old?  I’m not stopping.”

“You just did.”

for some certain poets who write often of the void as if it were a lover

by Paul Harrison

no matter how well
you craft the lines
or the line breaks
falling
down
a page
no matter how well
you dance with Death
and her handmaidens
despair and ennui
no matter how often
you elicit
gushing
responses
from people
who live
mostly
comfortable
lives
who have rarely been intimate with Death
or seen the mess it leaves behind
who respond
to your unquiet horror
with words like
'yea, baby'
'emotive, surreal',
'real nice'
'bravo',
'i dig it, man...'
no matter how often
that fawning gallery
swoons all over
your nihilism
your one trick pony poetic shtick
no matter how often
you dissemble
yourself
or dissemble to others
no matter how
many times
you glimpse
or approach
or rework
the abyss
that which is all
our birthrights
no matter
that
the nothinginess
the void
you crave so much
more than
cigarettes
more than
love
more than
drugs
more than
recognition
is something very ugly
no matter that
often i wish
you'd just shut up
or put up
and take
the trip
the jump
the cut
the handful of pills
the swing
the plunge
a shot to your gut
because
no matter what
i'll be sure, to be cheering you on...

Kindling

by Len Kuntz

My brothers were sunk, they took me with because they were babysitting. Still, the girls there had wavy, wheat-blonde hair and dance-floor lips that shimmered back question marks. “He’s so cute, isn’t he?” one asked. “He doesn’t look like either of you,” another said.

When they paired off and retreated to rooms, I turned on “The Mod Squad.” Julie looked like one of the girls, only thinner. I could hear both girls hyperventilating, as if they were a pair of kittens being smothered. But the air was sheer, pulsing and hot everywhere, so I got up to open the kitchen window, only the stove was there, as was a roll of paper towels and cook books nearby, a butcher block made of wood, mail and newspaper… so much kindling.

So, yes, okay, I did it. I started the fire, but I didn’t end it. I left before then.