MAGNITUDE

This is the home of the two-sided dragon – his scales unending, proud, non-negotiating. The best scales money can buy.

See the dragon lose his middle, his ability to talk through fear. See him bless his mother, his father and forsake his brother. Hear him cry softly at dusk as he hears us all gasp at the same sunset. 

This is the house where birth gives you right, if the dragon can see your particular shade of green.

No matter your fire of heart. 

This is the house haunted by ghosts on fire, where mistakes are memories as matchsticks. You can not see them. You can not hear them. But you can sweep their ashes under the rug.

Do this, before you can feel them. 

This is the home of the perfectly executed argument, where patterns and analysis and passions have their own statistics, their own area codes, their own distance from the storm that does not bring the rain. 

If only thunder and lighting could be our alarm clock.   

Here is the building under remodel from the shrine of big wins and industry, by the power of Identity declaring himself and his ownership of that which he sees and that which he does not.

Here is the roof under which there are three floors but only two rooms. Anger wears the pants but refuses to see. Indifference wears the screen of touch but refuses to connect. Hope wears the deep bruise but refuses to leave. 

This is the home where the children have come out from under the covers. They are in the front porch, straining to pull on their galoshes, whispering about a key, reaching for the handle, pausing briefly to look behind – not for support – but a new kind of oxygen.

They do not see a home, but a door locked. 

If only a dragon had hands.