She says the sky is on fire. The blue actually cool hue of the
quintessential flame, and clouds: spectators to record the
calamity. There are no such things as planes. They are products
of chemtrails—governmental spaying and neutering. Airports:
kennels/accomplices. She says birds are a dying breed of
matchsticks, striking the fuse with the tips of their beaks.
Runaway balloons are the severed grasping hands of children,
inflated aspirations set ablaze round campfire songs gone awry.
Kites are kites. Mostly pointless. Reigned in when fear outweighs
risk. But fireflies are real. Embers of tossed cigarettes thrown
over cold shoulders. She says either way, we’ll all burn in hell.