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.

King of Sandcastles

All the little boys begin
by feeling the power
of costume and cape

learning man versus
nature-
good guys and bad guys

until one day
the costume
becomes a uniform,
clean lines
disappear and
superheroes
become firemen

capable of brazen acts
of valor.

Before the selflessness,
all the little princes
are pranksters,
putting a single grain of sand
inside the oyster shell,
into the monks shoe,

and these became pearls,
of course
time
refined
things.

Little girl, I was called
Firestarter,
and practiced the title
often on bridges.

I have never seen the Sandman
in my sleep,
but in my wake
I feel the sand
filling me in-
side.

Apropos of the ritual 
I chose
to be buried alive
after I say
I do
wish
to be cut by pearls
into innumerable
and indistinguishable
pieces of myself

made up
of ashes and rust
as it must be
my nature.

I must confess,
the arsonist
admired his work
while I wed

the King of Sandcastles
before the tide rushed in.



Photo credit: Galveston Island Sandcastle, Texas, taken July 2011 in Public Domain.

Deconstruction

What more is there
to discover, look around
we are always finding
new ways to die.
*
Good humans finish their plates
last,
only to find
nobody to tell-
savoring is a learned skill.
*
Ritual releases the mind
from its chain-
if only we could be less
superstitious, sixth senses would
evolve.
*
Not saying-None listened-
Nor inklings or outright protest
overcame the decomposed granite
of speechlessness.
*
We tend to build things up.
*
We pretend to be the designers.
*
I found myself
looking away.
*
All the death
has been done
before.


Photograph by Carleton Watkins [CC0], Devils Canyon, Geysers, Looking Down' c. 1868-70, via Wikimedia Commons.

The Incantation of Sprung

The ringing had to have been

the resistance of air in being dissected

with a rugged swung scythe.

A crude way to make matters worse.

Should we speak up

so breath can chime in and tune on its own
accord to T for truths, sinews,
or sing along so we know

where we were going
when it is over?

Souls dissipate most visibly
when the sun is a mere

ten degrees above the arc at the end of All

and they blush as they come
into vulgar exposure.

The vertiginous extension of body

feels its mineral composition,

just as the mountain has long since
gathered here and crumbled there

under the broom of wind and whistling.

The wait is the same atomic gravitas

so we make music on its shoulders,

conjuring notes we hope will

carry,
raining colors in a natural spring

Forward marching over the detritus
of the Others
calcified fragments, ground in silt and 
carried by such quick sand.

To hear and to be heard over the years

something so sharply.

Watercolor by Karl Bodmer (1836) Assinboin in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Ritually Custom

'Tis a sensuous tribute to Time

that we caress the Moment,

knowing it curves and gestures

that sink into warm familiar coves,

sucking in all its nectar

as newly brewed.

Again, more, and a gain!

Let us do the steps-

in orderly,

walk with me, mirroring see,

strut through it

then and again

like it is your old house.

Right now, 

exactly like it was

when you remembered what

you came here for.

Tho never was it

the same, all most

re-placed.

Like last Time

bittersweet lingers not long 

enough.

Like seasons and seconds,

more tradition and Time

to do the same.

Plump predictions and ripe fruitions

bursting with Now

smelling like Then

we recognize This

time

as the Rite Time

to harvest

a gain.

Image By Mennonite Church USA Archives (1975 St Catherines Tradition Poster) [No restrictions], via Wikimedia Commons.