Fire Rite

He lit all of my gasoline
and boasted,
This is jet fuel baby,
I burn it all.

It was reckless of me
to expose my reserve tank
within such close proximity
to predictable ignition.

Not even a triangular flag
waves a nauseous warning
over fanned flames,
choked up
only to be licked with sharp tongues.

The day burns its long wick
down to the bare wax molded
mannequin of myself
who whispers Empty

in the end,

when the fire finally consumes itself
he calls it,
Raw Power as combustion
can be counted upon
inevitably
given enough
desire
to fill the stone curb well

with ashes.



Painting by Nikolai Astrup, 'Midsummer eve bonfire' c. 1915 in Public domain.

Fight or flight

I propose

to usurp the power that death takes

hold, clamping its rusted iron jaw on degradable values

make diffused, diluted and convert to decrease aversion

Fight or flight for

Fear?

(clipped wings are for peacocks)

I have thawed my right angles

to meet the idea of my mortality

in mirrors and simulations and held white

for a time, essentially accepting

dirt nor ash is enough to subsist us

For the birds-just-ice

Leave me

Happily ever after

Life.

Lastly, carried away

Wishes molded into clay sink

while the will

always ends 

with wind.

Painting by Melchior d'Hondecoeter [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Write hot, edit cold

None of it was good enough.

So you see, here, admittedly,

I understand the fire, a self-starter,
it makes decent fuel

the words work better than well.

It means I too- must end this way,

plain as day, Cremation

and yet

Fire scares me honestly.

It may be a miserable moment,

the next page, the new leaf, the blank slate-

Wait-never mind-what was said-dead-again.

Each time it becomes easier to name the wrong noun,

confound even myself, crosswords no longer help.

In other words

I shall not say,

See me

and I will match you.

I am simply sulphuring,

reeking with green steam.

Saturated, and I am too porous for this

laughing at my whole self,

the incompetence I relied upon 

and moments reborn

into better than imaginable-Memory.

Pretty-

All ways worth the weight in white.

Angels giggle at these simmering sounds

mistaken for a narrow fellow in the grass

making coils warm,

it was all the write words

fuming in the sun

without a bone to burn or pick

the ice ages will do the rest.  



Painting By McCord, George Herbert, 1848-1909 (artist); L. Prang & Co. (publisher) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.