His eyes feel like mad August; 
his breath, hot like hope. 
there’s oil in his insides,
and fire twisting in his veins. 

He glances past the striped tent,
which rises and swells with wind.
He sees a cluster of trees drinking stars,
as whispers usher through their contorted alabaster marionettes.

His childhood was a stranded candle
arrested in bruise-colored nights.
The lone light writhed, howled;
but soon was strangled in wax.

He always planted those volatile reminiscences
in the soil next to his rotten garden heart.
and felt those sickly seeds turn crimson,
as each parasite boasted its own pulse.

His skin kindles coliseums
of gasoline-soaked bones.
Slumber-sunk fireflies keep a hollow flame going,
as shadows melt among the incendiary waves of his hair.

He meanders into the light-studded circus,
with a drop of sweat wobbling on his nose.
The spectators fasten his flesh with their stares-
and he slowly peers out at their silhouettes wriggling in the twilight.

His torches burst to life.
Scalding red veils crackling out of existence;
and immediately smoke tugs at his lungs.
His body hisses as he brings the chaos to his teeth.

A charring succession of infernos singe his throat.
Relics of his past heaves upward,
those tears, souvenirs of lonely Septembers, illuminated
between the feathers of phoenixes.

And that pillar of flame suspended above his lips,
cradled by deep liberating exhalations,
collapses within itself.

And the Night applauds.

Remember art class in the big room
with spray painted concrete ground
where you were given a tiny mosaic
square and asked to recreate it on a
much larger piece of canvas when
you knew full well you weren't an
artist and you never would be? You
spent the time mixing blue and white
acrylic paint together on a small piece
of a former gallon of milk, adding and
adding until there was more than you
would need but the color matched
perfectly and of that you were proud.

Now you're older and you know a bit
more about hue and saturation and how
difficult it can be, working with imprecise
mediums, to do that, to make something to
fit a very precise set of guidelines with no
missteps, no miscalculations, no question
as to its perfection. You wonder if the color
really did match back then, or if you are
remembering something that never really
happened, if you wanted it bad enough
that it changed your recollection.

That day, everyone's large square canvas
pieces went together into designated
spaces on the wall to make a composite
image and all the blues were different
shades and that made you frustrated
and nervous and disappointed in the
other third graders sitting around in a
circle on wobbling stools wearing dad's
old dress shirts as smocks and throwing
brushes at each other and giggling as
eight-year-olds do. You stared at the
tidal wave on the wall made up of all
these disparate pieces and you told
yourself that you'd notice when things
matched as though they were meant, as
though they were destined and divine.

You see the waves lapping at the beach as
we stare out at the vast Pacific. We stand
on the shore and you tell me that my eyes
match perfectly the colors of the Sitka spruces
reaching their arms out wide behind me. Your
flannel shirt matches the gray November sky.
It took all the way to Oregon until it happened
again, but you keep your promise to yourself.

You notice the matching colors. You
smile to yourself and look down at me.
You grab my hand and pull me closer.

When the boxelder beetle died in front
of me, it was in good company.  The drapes
covering the wood and pipes softened
the sunlight illuminating stain-glass arches
behind the *****, shrouding dozens of other
dead boxelders that littered the tiles.  As
the bug slowed to a halt, each leg twitched
instead of moving forward.  The sunday service
then began and the larger pipes of the *****
rumbled through the chapel, causing the floor
to hum along with the numerous insect corpses.  
Each beetle vibrated to a slight blur and shifted
in one direction or the other, except for the one
still living; it gripped to the tiles beneath.  But
as the song continued, the boxelder began
to shake like the rest, and by the final
cadence of the prelude, the six spindles
carrying the bug curled like hooks under
its shell, lowering the boxelder bug
enough to allow a fraction less light
to fall underneath it, just like the rest.

The last cigarette of the pack
Life has been reduced to empty boxes
Trivial conversations
Hollow gestures
And bleeding fingertips
Listen , you don't need love
You need a warm **** to
Bury yourself in until
The storm passes
It's 3 in the morning
Half drunk
Half remembered
The minutes shatter in my mouth
Like glass and people
save me
That's all you'll ever hear me say
But Salvation is a passing car
On a one way street
To nowhere