the news sinks in and everything dissolves of color.I am in a rage so red i can’t see the door in front of me-- but i stumble through it, drunk and sobbing with my first victim,who is already as good as dead: the television has been asking to be thrown off the roof for some time. it explodes as i scream at the top of my lungs. next a vacuum cleaner; the fucking thing never gets used in this shithole anyway. the toaster oven sails flamingly through the late gray afternoon to join the graveyard of broken machinery below. i wish to god i had a bat. my friends hold me back. i am screaming, beating the ice with my bare fists until my knuckles bear blood, but nothing answers my echo except my own voice. the sun fades on the vista of broken vacuum tubes and mangled wires.
it is always only a simple matter of time until it turns dark; the universe is woven with laws of inevitability. the arc of the projectile predicts it must return to earth no matter how many poems we write, no matter how hard we cry, no matter how much we suspend belief to reject the relentless pull of gravity.