Fear, Walls, and Fiery Tales

I stepped up
to the mouth of the cave
my chest plated-
the flickering light
sparking
my curious compulsion
for heat.

Come to find
not some majestic dragon
as projected upon a dirt wall
but an angry ogre
whose tongue sparks
and lashes out like
new flames.

The smoke
thick and decrepit,
his heart rots within
while his rosy cheeks,
black lips and eyes a glow
at me.
Despite this
I know, I am safe.

He will never leave
his inner rage

for the stronger
light of day.
And I could feel the heat
from behind
beckoning me back
to a place without...



Artwork by Francisco Goya y Lucientes (1746-1828), 'Seated Giant' circa 1818, in Public Domain. 

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.

Word Problems

The following lines are not my own, they are quotes which serve as railcars running along a track of thought...

Pain is inevitable,
Suffering is optional.
Our suffering is the problem,
the answer is waking up.
Hope is a waking dream.
I said to my soul, be still and wait without hope,
for hope would be hope for the wrong thing.
Whatever satisfies the soul is Truth.
Three things cannot be long hidden;
the sun, the moon, and the Truth.
The cause is hidden; the effect is visible to all.
When you have seen beyond yourself,
then you may find
peace of mind is waiting there.
Just keep in mind, the more we value things
outside of our control, the less control we have.
Holding on is believing there is only past;
letting go is knowing that there is a future.
Without desire there is stillness,
and the world settles by itself.

***
(Attributions in order by line:
1-4 Buddhist texts
5 Aristotle
6 & 7 T.S. Eliot
8 Walt Whitman
9 & 10 Buddhist saying
11 Ovid
12-14 George Harrison
15 & 16 Epictetus
17 & 18 Daphne Rose Kingma
19 & 20 Lao Tzu



Painting by Francesco Rustici (1610-1625), Allegory of Wisdom and Prudence' in Public domain.

Veins

Rivers run
clock-wise
gathered seconds from
Hidden Springs
one way
gaining distance in
Time and Space
accommodates
this swelling of our souls,

after so many miles
consumed and minerals made
we carry all these
these accumulations
around
the middle
counter-clockwise

where all the numbered faces
count
on the moon
to turn cheek
and the Rivers rise
with mouths
full of asteroids.



Painting by Gertrud Staats, dated before 1938 in Public domain.

branches

This is not love.
We can be certain.

These arms may connect us
or reach
away
yet-
only a knot
knows what was
once there.

And I have started to lose feeling
after clenching so long
the words or a similar
breeze to bring me closer
to you.

Instead I hang
precariously
numb.

A heartwood drains
down my
whitened clasped hand

an indistinct ring-
ing in the ears
is calling for Us
to let go of dead weight
before the wood
turns to bone

without love
there was no way to tell
how high we were
there was no way
we should be certain
to survive the fall.



Painting by Charles Reginald Aston, between 1852-1908 in Public Domain.

Amy never finished her wine

It was in the dregs,
like literal coffee grounds
where the future could be red
and read
as follows;

Two sides
are always connected
somewhere in between
heads and tails,
his and hers,
love and hate
and living and dying
is your Prophecy.

When picking sides
it is safe to presume
that both are sharp enough
to draw blood

and switchblades
thrust open
hearts of flesh and palms
close into fist balls
tossed at those within arms reach.

A residue that stains,
the names of things,
the unswallowable future,
the absence of anything
consumable, the thirst
for pain is a craving
for love and hate.

Desire
of our own destruction
is still desire,
making it
Big
never makes anything smaller.
Having it all
is the same as not imagining
more.

It all becomes the same
sharp point,
*"this is how you switch the blade,
you always hurt the ones you love,"
perhaps passion points us
toward the pain
of never knowing
when we are finished.

*Lyric written by Amy Winehouse

Painting by Jan Davidsz. de Heem (1606-1683), 'Still life with fruit and wine' c. 1642 in Public domain.

Hot Spring

Well, we can depend
on the constant flow
of water out of the spigot

In these modern times
nails lined with dirt
hold nothing
together

And so few knew
cleansing could be so
bone-chilling,
the cold C
sterilizes me
still
leaving
a residue of salt
inside the deepest wounds

For hope was on the other side

The H begins at the same
temperature
If we wait
sometimes longer than others,
immersed in it,
the degree of Hope rises
from tip to tip,
from pipe to vein

Although, we all know
one drop
was never enough
to remove the stains
or replenish the well
completely
and for good

it was always our turn
of the faucet,
our choice
from which side
to draw
out from some hidden
seeming eternal source.



Artwork by Károly Patkó (1895-1941), 'Woman washing herself' c. 1931 in Public domain.