three blow bird stone

i reached into the lower drawer
grabbed the
two pairs of pants and
plaid shirt.
in the top drawer i found
about seven pictures
and seven or eight
notes, some
hand written, some
type written
i thought,

these notes do not match all
that time.

i found
the unsmoked cigar
i looked at the book of short stories
but decided to
keep it
i found the tall mug and had to
pour its water
out
i found the shorter one but
it was already dry
with thick,
dark,
coffee residue
caked on the
bottom

these were the things,
somehow, off

i took them to the
back yard and to the hole
i had dug;
a hole only
two feet deep,
two feet wide and long.
tossed in the clutter.
as soon as i did
i lost my foothold in Place,
became dizzy and compressed
as if pushed and pulled
through a keyhole
by the mud-like passing of time.

i didnt know what i was
doing anymore
but i knew what had to
be done so

i doused
the lot of it
in
lighter fluid and then
threw the rusty canister in,
lit a match and
watched it burn
away

far away
from me

a ceramic
PoPPing
CraCKing

the mugs did not get it at first
but eventually they did
melting and
breaking into smaller and
smaller pieces
those flames were shaped
different than most flames
i usually like fire,
find it calming,
am mesmerized by
it
dancing

but it didn't
dance, it sort of
dragged, sad

i thought about a
bird i had found
once, on his way to death.
hungry and thirsty,
probably, with a broken wi-
ng.
he could not sing or fly, only
lie there, empty and resigned.
i wrapped him
in my shirt and took
him outside,
put him on the ground and
smashed him with the heaviness of a garden stone.
three blows.
i threw it in a plastic garbage can
among discarded construction materials and
old food.
i felt no remorse when i
killed the bird but
later, friends and not-friends told me that i should
have tried to save the bird's
life
i did not see the practicality in this
and did not regret it until
i realized that i take
this approach
with love.
smashing it
when it looks like
it may die
anyway