shoot_out_the_lights raze a siren starts screaming the second i open the door. soft colours fade with the dying of a stranger's laughter. i watched her husband walk behind her once. shoulders slumped. a piece of human luggage carrying a cooler. sixteen years in and i still don't know what to call her. she accused me of hitting her car after a couple of crackheads kicked in our front_door. i never learned to drive. she helped us back out of the driveway one winter when we were hemmed in by snow. all she is to me is red hair and white_noise. i hone in on a conversation i'm not a part of. a few words slip out of the stream of empty syntax. "a terrible term," she says. a white-haired woman walks a little black dog on a red leash. flashing lights strafe my sight. a fire engine flies by. there's no fire here. only tired urges that have outlived their usefulness. a screen door moans two houses down. if it sit here long enough, fashion my fingers into firearms, and shoot out every streetlight i see, maybe i can disappear. 230614 what's it to you? who go blather from