Sometimes I want blue-hot fire to erupt out of my chest and/or my mouth, beamlike with tiny fire fingertips breaking off, rose-stem-shaped and atmosphere-touching. It’s a familiar visual, I think, something I probably picked up in any number of places, but also an image that’s appeared in my writing as early as my late teens. I usually get this feeling while I’m waking down the street, listening to a certain part of a certain type of song. Occasionally I’ll actually crucify out my fists and throw back my head, the posture of were it to happen. But it doesn’t. Inside my chest is only the unlit blackness of concealed biology. I lower my arms, unclench, keep walking, always explosive.