If I were a machine. Like a toaster. And I burned hot, it might be dangerous.
I wouldn’t be able to touch it, it would be unsafe to stay close, or keep anything close.
I would be afraid of this piece of machinery in my kitchen.
If the toast came out like toast (not like at the bagel shop where you ask for it “toasted” and it comes out not), I would keep it. I would keep it in the kitchen, but because of my fear and respect I would keep it unplugged. Then the moment my son burned himself — the toaster would be by the curb. That would be the end of my lLife As a Toaster, and I’d simply write a play about it, embarrass myself, embarrass my family, humiliate my girlfriend, dig up old shit with my ex
s hopefully squeeze out a good review and move on.
If I were an element. Like water. I’d want to know how hot I can get.
A casual warmth? Scalding boil? Simmering humidity?
I’d dip a toe: watch it turn, swirl, like a galaxy expanding into nothing. With permission, I’d push further like a dancer, submerging to the heel.
Let the world wash
Ache settle. Ache in my back,
Grief in my chest,
The dime size choke in my throat.
Purifying. Baptizing. Coming as close to cleanliness as I can, and finally allow myself complete submission.
The only advice I want to hear is Hate what’s happening to the people you love.
Hate when you see the weak fall.
Hate when the misunderstanding leads to fear.
Why fear when you can burn.
Burn young man, and be the light.