I write poetry to chisel faces
Out the stone emotion of words. I
Use the grain of the stones to chip away at the
Language with flint and steel until sparks fly.
Until heat sparks flame in the tender of
Verse. To burn down the page. To scorch the lips
Of the faithful. To anger the mind. To
Light to flame the mountainside brush. My
Poetry is a lithograph of words
Set on stone tablets to print to pages
The rules of language bestowed only to
Be broken. To set the dictionary
Of lies that will bring forth ideologues
Who will try to hold your feet to the flame.
Dressing your kill on your knees. The last leaf
Falls. The story ends. Your wood shed. A roofed
Pile that you built. Old pallets, scrap wood,
And an angled flat roof you covered in
Left over scraps of tile. Your cabin.
Warm from your seasoned wood. It had been her
Present to you. Or your present to you.
Your dream. Your refuge from her. From never
Ending shitfits. Angry that you cooked your
Own meals. Angry that you invited her
To eat. Angry. And why? Because of your
Mannerisms. Because her father did
Something. Once, before you knew her. Something
Like nothing you had done. Blame without end.
Take a deep breath. Deeper. Take their smoke in
Your lungs. Become them. Become carriers
Who could be rendered with sparks and smoke long
As scraggly brush blown off the burn pile. Long
Of the yellowed cotton filters. Burned out.
And the butts everywhere. Burned out. Scattered
With these used up people. Dotted. Frayed by
Their time in the dryer. Hand around the
Black lake. Willing all find their way carried
Brains like piles of clean clothes. Thoughtless heaps.
They smell of diffuse cigarette smoke. Like
Mental peanut butter. In line for the
Illness. Blacks your fingertips with each touch.
With the paper gone. Dissolved. Washed away.
Over cooked. Words and fire in the pan.
Preaching truth to power. Not brown enough.
The schoolyard fragrant with words and wind as
You were hoping it was. The doe eyed gal.
The joints. A grave. Oil and flour all
Medium heat had worked. Not brown enough.
Just toss in the vegetables. The oil
To the fire. The doe eyed gal with her
Muscle. Fragrant. Flagrantly so. Don’t
Walk away. Peaceful in our safe space.
But threatening to burn. Not brown enough.
At a point where Asian reporters have
Contracted white privilege. If you’re not black,
You must know that you are not brown enough.
The partial eclipse. A humid day in
August when your eyes sting with sweat as you
Pile more trash on the fire to find
The cutting edge. Do you know how bright and
Opaque in nature and work? Does your skin
Know how to find the answers? Does the
Ash fall down like snow melting into the
Sweat in your eyebrows? Does each drop mark you
In long streaks? Does the lily in the field
Fill your lungs? Burn your eyes? Does the bee know
The angry communist to be happy
When she has subjugated the world? Will
I notice? Does it matter? Do I care?
Doesn’t the bullfrog song lull you to sleep?
They of the long death.
Those bringing the death carpet.
The sulfur people.
They are the strange ones.
Ash and bone and polished shards
Woven in fabric.
They wear their beliefs
Like the gathers of their lands
Taken from the earth.
Chanting they swing. Their
Noxious censors billowing.
Staining the skies black.
Stagnant as Latin,
Sattva Casetti was dead.
Eighty-four and smoke.
The chugging machine
Her birthday or near.
Fulfilling of prophecy
Ending the Red Death.
In ash and fragrant spices
That burn and consume.
Smokes that rise and fade
Lifting the spirit, the dead
Giving safe passage.
Were lit, it would curl out in a ripping
Unevenly achieved moksha forth from.
And even broadly the universe would
As the dog that stands in a hill of ants.
Sparks, smoke, scraggly brush. The chugging machine.
Jokes at work without getting fired for
Black and red ripped ends. Smoke it as if it
Were angry fire that ants unblinkingly
Allow. Homemade sausage native of weeds
Punctuated by work as numb plants that
Swarm up my leg stinging me around pine,
Oak, and sweetgum giving way to red fields.
But when sparks and ash spewed thump-thump-thump from,
Brahman was the sound sparks and ash don’t say.
It was too harsh. Books banished, weeded, and
Smoke escaped one’s free words. Sad strands of smoke
Rose from the diffuse cherry. And the smoke sucked
Fields of weeds. A big bunch of these bad boys
Swept their own ink. They had smoked it like weed
Out the end of bad taste. The color of
Your teeth after you smoke twelve packs of Cools.
He was sure the weeds had needed a cut.
From early wood fire, and plants. Wet clay hills were
Suspended. The peels were hard to keep lit
When they held planes as fat as forest fires.
Gang violence replaced mineralized Mitch
For us. The bright color of fire ants tell
Dirty dotted chunks of information.
I was losing track of the conversation.
Pliny the Younger and I were quick
To rip down the flier
Before it was his turn again.
Flames full of over the top action.
If you want the flame to run, paper burns faster.
Tommy lit a match and dabbed the story,
The commandment, and turned it in his fingers.
Daughter pictures thought they had
Set trees up in the way but instead
Arranged them on the floor where they were
Made into a possibility of the other side.