Killing Noise

by Christian Bell

I gave a speech about how I wanted to sit down with people of different cultures, how we would talk and dine, sing and dance, knowing it's impossible.  I burned up in the atmosphere, my body plunging from orbit, becoming consumed by flame as it fell through different layers of atmosphere.  I wrote on my arms the names of prophets, my own philosophy, the violence that is every eye blink.  I walked the walk of the walkers.  I ate a novel.  I digested a film reel.  I vomited poetry. I bound myself in tape, becoming a clear mummy, still alive, my brain and organs still housed in their appropriate cavities.  I called your name, wanting more.  I screamed your name, my voice the blast of Krakatoa, full of selfish killing noise.  I wrote an essay on how the world is broken people.  I cut my flesh into geographies so everyone would see my version of the world.  I cried for everyone who died before they should have.  I righted all wrongs yet still everything was wrong.    I walked through your front door even though you didn't invite me. I was dead beyond dead.  I listened to the music of broken shells.  I let the ocean wash over me, scrub me clean with its abrasives.  I found that book in the infinite library, the one you thought could never be written.  I rewrote my role, moving from shadows to spotlight to shadows once more.  I erased myself, again and again.