Directions

 

I loved directions. “In case of fire, break glass.” So there was a fire. I broke

the glass. I salivated for more directions. But there was none. The fire waltzed

and continued to rage—Xanadu, lies. The laws of flight and fall perceived

rebellion. Its park, so dark. A huge hum of darkness I have never heard,

listened to. Nor welcomed with its promising cryogenic address. So I found

new ways to make a friend. Then a man came out of the sprawl. Himself confused

with the sound of his name, even James Joyce could sprightly not explain,

this man made me rethink directions. “In case of fire,” he said, “break me.”

He might be the glass that I made, then broke open for athletically good reason.

But what do I know about breaking? I just loved directions, and I learned

to break them with tremendous speed. It sounded as though I were coursing

my own roundabout. So I ran after the fire that followed me. I ran fast

without caution, walked without warning. And I lived