by Kent Bruyneel
I'm a rocket ship angel baby.
I'm a pilot.
I'm a green-lit field of perfect blues. I'm a pilot angel baby.
I'm a sore knee.
I'm a winking memory. A bleeding tragedy. I'm a rocket ship angel baby. A pilot.
I'm your old times. Your loss. I'm a landing strip baby. Good air. I'm a pilot angel baby. A rocket ship.
I'm the hallway down the hall, back-lit and autumn. Capacity and wonder.
I'm a fuel killer.
Kent Bruyneel is tired and alone. His hands are shaking as he writes this and he wants, more than anything in this entire world, for his beautiful orange cat to stroll back into his life and sit on his fat belly and push her head against his so he can drift into sleep, and feel, and believe; and not think the world is full of brutes; and stroke her back and while leading into the great bend of her tale, say softly in her ear, "Yes, yes, I love you Franny, I love you."