Top floor. Bottom buzzer.

The bell on 866 1/4 sounded like nothing from my end. Still the door buzzed open and there I stood with a newborn baby sized arm full of flowers ready to hand over to a man who was obviously loved a whole lot by someone. I'm talking roses and irises here. I'm talkin one estranged gardenia, too. To receive flowers is the world's unspoken fairy tale come true, if the reactions of my recipients indicates accurately.

I'm just the delivery girl. You don't pay me. You just thank me. I am the flower messenger. I am your favorite person right now. Next to the one who's name is printed on that little card, I am your favorite person in the world.

I intended to give him a bouquet and bound away, as I usually do in my brown uniform kina UPS meets produce isle. Which seems about right. But when 866 1/4 opened up, he didn't even glance at the flowers. He took no notice of anything but my eyes. And his eyes. Like he had sent flowers to himself knowing I would come.

I intended to tell him someone must really love him. And wait for him to tell me whom.

Instead I am driving this brown open door delivery truck whistling - no one ever does that but I do today. I made my delivery and 866 1/4 delivered me. Without a doubt I was definitely his favorite person in the world today.

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I'm not sure what's important anymore. Other than how passionately and immediately and totally I can experience anything. The greater the challenge, the higher the risk, the more important it is.

I'm not talking about playing with your life here. Or am I?

Consideration of the ego and practice of egolessness accomplished. Realization of money, it's meaninglessness, it's flow, it's power affirmative. Transcendence of illness, injury, and upset complete. Symbiosis with the natural, moving, growing world effective. Manifestation of Will fruitious. Karmic flow engaged. Position in society established. Gurus are bored out of their minds. Renegades are bored out of reality. Discordians are bored out of fun.

I am bored with what contemplation, seeking and evolution have in their front pockets. I am here to Find Out how far any direction goes.

The giant stomping barbarian racing always forward at the horizon dragging herself by elastic dread locks pulling in opposition into infinity behind.

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Something in this crooked heart is breaking. The fires are burning on the hill. I can see them overtaking the city's horizon from my rooftop view and like the devil at mass, tears instinctually issue forth from this crooked heart.

I am crying because the fires threaten my tribe. I can see the helicopters - the canopy of water sprayed, I can hear wailing widow sirens and I want to smother the inferno to save, preserve, protect whatitis I think needs protecting with my very own bare hands.

Or do something important, something noteworthy, something that matters before we all loose this beloved thing inevitably of fire or famine or cancer or car accident.

Instead I am writing poetry on my rooftop like devastation were some prime time tune-in. Feeling like riots could be raging behind the next landscape crest, like annihilation could be stalking me from a not so distant window, like anarchy could be standing over my shoulder with cold steel at my neck and I'd be doing just the same.

Nothing important. Nothing meaningful. Just writing poetry and watching fire, knowing someone will extinguish it eventually and secretly rooting for it to raze as much as it can while it can because I've never witnessed something this voracious, this wonton, this potent - this free - ever before.

Ever.

To throw our head back and cackle at the sky, "Give me everything you've got - I will not be contained" while little hoses dampen us with spittle and puny machines make their alarms.

I cry because everyday I see death. I still want the fire to win.

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