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Nineteen years ago; the world is again and still aflame. But there is nothing to say about this. I am so tired of theory and conspiracy and construct; I want what is felt in the viscera. Solace in the body and fire and blood, in wet grass in the fist and the feeling of bitten skin. This morning I feel my cold feet on the wet concrete, the smell of propane hissing from the grill, the sear of meat- fire echoing fire; fire licking flesh- and wonder if the soul is ever sated.

The dogs watch me their liquid eyes.