Buildings Fighting (and How They Learn)

Hello Mrs. Johnson
Hello Mr. Brown

I was in my house. I knew that. But I didn’t feel like I was inside anything.
—Raymond Carver


The Tune and Also the Words
I was in my city but I didn’t feel like I was inside anything.
I was walking through rain to other rain, ajar as any well-winded door.

That was the first word. When we were still getting prehistoric with each other.
Pith with a strand torn from scalp. Folded into your wallet in tiny effort of voodoo.
This is no longer sleeping around a lake-based square.
This is no longer any kind of hustle, so what is this?
The seeds out back may well have escaped.
Pumpkins pouring down the road near the driveway. Nasturtium ricketing all around the fenceline.

Riddle kin, take not your part in this disaster.
I want to smell different and remind people of new things based on smell alone.
I want to smell alone, reminding things of people when they were different.
I want different reminders, basing smells on people being alone.

Is it possible to know the weight of crushed bird hope?
I don’t believe in it. I don’t believe we had a first word.
The morning was swift and bruised, a vivid pillar.

Then I lost it.

"...here, then, is what is considered to be desire; desire known as a mobile void."


Goodbye Mrs. Johnson
Goodbye Mr. Brown

Who it's for knows who it's for.