Good Lovers Don't Make Escape Routes

I have been surrounded by lava since I was a child. When I climbed trees, the lava bubbled below. Streams of lava filled sidewalk cracks, so I hopped each one. It sneaked into my house, and slithered through the linoleum. I jumped from couch to chair to chair to kitchen. It quickly found the grooves in the kitchen tiles, and the tiles were tributaries for the burning madness. So, the trick was having an escape route. Out the back door, off the porch, and onto the skateboard. The skateboard to the brick wall, climb the wall and jump to the garage roof. It was easy. I practiced it often.
But my parents were always caught in the kitchen, fighting and screaming. They never made it out of there. They burned up; they drowned. I guess good lovers don't make escape routes. Good lovers try to withstand the heat. They believe their passion to be greater than the elements. They let the lava in thinking it will be a rush, but too often they are violently consumed. Then, they are reincarnated and start climbing trees and jumping cracks as if nothing ever happened.
There are some people who understand what they're dealing with. They don't dive in. Instead, they make little boats and float through it all with the occasional burn. But are they still good lovers? Do they speak to one another at dinner? I hope so.
Since the moment my parents were consumed by lava, I have sailed through it in my little boat from house to house, school to school, car to car, and city to city. I'm in my 15th apartment, 8th city, 4th country and 3rd broken heart. It's conclusive. If good lovers don't make escape routes, I am one of the worst.

Lawyers, Guns and Money: The Great Dust-Up

I was told to expect one great dust-up in my life. I had imagined a hospitalizing brawl, or too much cocaine in a weak heart. Maybe an unwanted pregnancy. Something like that.
But Mighty George cooked up something more original, more delicious.
It happened shortly after my 28th birthday. And once the dust settled, my career, money, house, friends and girlfriend vanished. They were replaced with lawyers and cops, fright and paranoia. Looking back on it, I wish somehow guns could have been involved.
As the intermittent days eerily crawled along, as I sold my possessions, drank remorsefully and said my goodbyes to the place I called home, I figured America didn't want me anymore.