Please grab hold of a meaning & pull it to your face.
—Chen Chen
leaving the hospital, i find myself
hot for crime. i’m barreling for the
scene of it, of any kind, just take me
to the nearest one (aren’t they every
where?), like a heat-seeking missile.
i play this scenario in my head,
imagining i’m slim pickens’
character, major “king”
kong, riding that
nuclear bomb
like it was a
rodeo horse,
or a bucking
bronco, in dr.
strangelove.
when one’s
fix is the end
of the world, one
doesn’t make films
like dr. strangelove.
what’s my fix, then?
is passion the crime?
is the crime sexual?
what heat do i seek
like a thief? what
are the questions
that come to mind
directly after one’s
life flashes before
one’s eyes? as
the high-speed
reel spins from
past to present
and then to a
future that is
clipped abruptly,
what then boils
within, rising
like steam so
that the end
credits sweat?
“it is not just
any trouble
being sought,”
he thought as
in sunk the
knife before
it was twisted.
such a twist
makes for a
finale. was
it grand?
nobody
asks.
