Watched a guy in mismatched socks. Out in front of the grocery store. Wasn't really a person anymore. Not socially. Not so sure. All jailhouse. Shirtless and shitty. Rifling through trash. Hooting threats. Nothing pretty. Picking out bottles. Looking for glass. Busting up the biggest ones he could find. Full-shouldered hate. Hard as he could. Chucked into the street. Blown tires. One after another. I watched two, three, four. Five. No one else seemed to notice. Barely alive. Lost in their headphones. All that jive and bullshit. So of course, no one did a god-damn thing. And the circus moved on. Unending.

The Biggest Problem to fret about is that those unembraced children, All of 'em! Those kids? They're going to want to feel some warmth. Keep wanting to feel some kind of warmth. Feel something. They've come from nowhere. And it's where they're going. Their world's flattened and they fold easily. They whine and complain. All pity and pain. Society means nothing. Not a thing to them. Or worse, everything. Despised. Reprisals. What's built burns easily. What's burnt salts the earth. Scorched. Parched peaks. There are freaks in the hills, feral. Scattered packs and solo wolves. Wherewithal. There are men roasting rats in baskets. Careless. Falldown tragic. A legion of lesions and busted elastic. Mismatched slides. You fucking idiot. Slippering floors. High-gloss. Security guards and self-sealing doors. Lungs flooded, heart hammering. Head-light. Lost again. You hunger for skin. In its caress or in crisping. Cracklings. Struck matches. Torched. Ignition excarnate.

Infernal.

And the fire starts. All that can't be had will not be. Not for him and not for he. Not for she. Her nor they. Eyes reflect the fire's sway. Fear setting in. Ill-prepped wreck. Counting the chairs as the flames climb the deck.