16 Aug

It’s back. Insomnia. We go together from 2 or 3 a.m. into the next day. Counting rotating blades on the ceiling fan. Counting roadside flowers. Killing jokes. Summer of 69 I was born while three thousand miles away the Cuyahoga river caught fire from oil, industrial fuel, logs, debris, and household waste washed downstream by periodic storms. No common law of strict liability. Eleven years later I walked along the river that had been ablaze, and smoked my first cigarette. I threw the butt into the water to see what would happen. Nothing. I had a younger brother who died from spinal meningitis when I was two years old. I don’t ever remember him or doing anything with him. But on this night he and I are walking hand in hand and the flames of the river are reflected in our corneas.


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