Wait wait wait, I didn’t mean to step there. I intended to talk about methane. Methane doesn’t smell you know, but wait wait wait, it is a greenhouse gas don’t you know, and when it gets into the atmosphere, it sets up a party above the clouds, where it likes to lick sunlight into some purple state of orgasm. Doesn’t want to leave. Stars do sort of the same thing but wait wait wait, I meant to make my grocery list, put it on the front door in case someone wanted to do it for me, and speaking of which, there’s the handsome guy in the London Fog coat down the street who is having a look at what I have pinned up here. But wait. Honestly, just wait, because what I meant to say is that I have a pining for pickles, deep fried variety, which I can get from the local barbeque joint and that’s where I am, fantasizing about what will happen if I stick my hands in the grease and it congeals as it cools, and what I bite into is concentrated fat peppered with pickles, but wait wait wait. That isn’t it at all. There is an amusement I do at the door of the zoo, where I picture animals taking a revolt against us, and there I am, consigned to the starfish tub, stuck under the water, but hold on for a moment because that isn’t right. I want a bigger house and larger eaves to clean, and taller trees to give me shade when I least need it, and leaves most eager to fall when I don’t want them. On the way home, I saw a hedgerow of poplars doing something unscientific, curling their roots about the asphalt of a new road, measuring the smell of tar and the compaction of base coat, but wait wait, there was a house on the escarpment that I wanted to buy, where a man and a woman had raised fourteen kids and I had been one of them, the twelfth, the most undistinguished number of them all, and wait wait wait, that is not really me, that is the other me, the one that buys symphony tickets but never uses them, the one that dresses better than the money I have to support the habit, the one with the creaks and moans with moments of black-out that topple me, abuse me, re-retain me, and then wait with me so that I wait and wait and wait for something that might save me. Here but by tearing out, I erupt from the pages of a book that wait wait wait, doesn’t acknowledge me, doesn’t remember me, doesn’t know that I was there at the beginning, the middle, the stuff that came after that waits waits and sees simple salvos aimed deep at trees… A blossom hurt. Money turned. Wait wait wait. Sample, see and create. Evolution of the creases in the pages that pages once were books, that books were formerly meant to be read and may again, once the hurt corrodes because acid is at it. Leave leave off the waiting and the doddering, wait wait no more or more, or simply a troll under your bridge because no path is holy, no flight is available to us not really. I fly. You fly. We go and wait wait wait, because this isn’t right, this is wrongness and sameness, and reality pays less than documents we find in the trash, those ones that we are glad to steal but in the end we put them there and they are ours and wait wait wait, I was hoping for better days, hoping for hotter years, hoping for happier endings and more clarity because you want it, I want it, we have to have it now, there is no stepping out onto some fog of sea anymore, we are doomed to writing certainty. We are doomed to writing certainty. We are doomed to writing certainty. We are doomed to writing, certainly. I wait. I wait until I fly. I fly until I wait no more.