I need to do something with my heart

Or else it’s gonna die. It’s gonna jump in front of a bus or climb the wrought iron over the park and go off the bridge in a gasoline-doused blaze of missought glory, and I’m gonna be on whichever of those sidewalks watching in the seconds it stops beating. I’m gonna be on whichever of those sidewalks in horror and actionless, the first nobody swerved over and out of the car dialing 911 running the hill when the immigrants ahead get run off the road and fly over the blind highway median into oncoming who knows, and the last by far to make a grab for the owned heart. Because maybe that heart wants to go, maybe it all makes sense, maybe I should wait and see what happens, maybe the whole incident comes out fine, but that’s incredibly impossible.

Credulity and possibility get to be good modification partners and not dumbass redundant because one’s personal and the other’s realistic. The personal’s never realistic even when the realistic’s always, always personal. We skip on, that heart beating faster with the girl or slower with the lite drugs, boundless and too-felt-to-be-fake, not bumping against the walls on the other side of the studio or parking lot or city limits or time zone but believing we have or have not, the difference hazy and relativisitic. Night comes on, and we only grasp the continuity errors in dreams, forgotten, or in moments just before, unforgettable because she’s not there in the morning either. The loaf of bread on the counter is still unbroken, carry-out bags nearby, and her dress doesn’t hang off the spinning chair to be the sign beyond the breathing body.

Dizzy. Kick in that chair or two feet firmly in the concrete deal in some kind of addictive emotional vertigo. A doctor can tell you how the blood pump charges the butterfly flip or the child mind-race, but  science for me offers nothing on where or how all the responsible stimuli grow up, drop out and find a job or slack or seemingly randomize themselves with lonesome grocery runs, monogrammed LED pulses, squirt gun ambushes, collaborative but thoughtless raised hands of peace, and wanting urban crop circles. Sales pros have better chances, but who trusts them? Smile, yeah? You and I are gonna need to smile to sell.

I’ve got to want to hand you the keys, to not want to hear your spiel, to walk into your establishment without any ideas of the doors, even the fire door I came in, the one with the alarm still blazing down the block over traffic and coolant fans, probably in the alley but maybe out front to tell every passerby all day that this summer can’t sweat you out. Working hard has never been hotter, you make the claim in all caps and dripping curses, and I agree. Nobody else agrees. They’re sick of racing out to the bridge with the big net and reordering and assembling the spinning furniture they find broken each morning. What could’ve happened here last night becomes the eternal question for the understaffed records office and the sleepless emergency services department, and I know as much but don’t care enough to believe in answering. If you don’t care enough to answer them either, maybe you need to do something with your heart too. We both have to be here tomorrow, whatever help or hurt we’ve dealt our hearts.

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