Despair smells smoked and moldy.
Collective memories are composites of heaviness
oozing through thought crevices,
still smoldering with fumes from molten fax machines.
The I has disintegrated but the Me still lingers.
And there is an indistinct, moaning We.
We didn’t understand what was happening and we still don’t.
Fire is such a painful driver of motion,
but there was no where to go.
Stuck in and under each other’s burning flesh, we melted too.
The heat is gone, but the fire lingers.
I am the fire now, cold upon a cleared space.
Only forgetfulness could kill me,
release me from an afterlife of burning questions.
Perhaps today I will become the memorial.
Or revisit organic substances that have seeped
and mingled with new concrete.
Or ride upon the airwaves of broadcasts,
and sniff out new questions that will never be truthfully answered.
Perhaps today I will finally die.
And tomorrow too.