There was an Old Man of Vesuvius,
Who studied the works of Vitruvius;
When the flames burnt his book,
To drinking he took,
That morbid Old Man of Vesuvius.

1705

Volcanoes be in Sicily
And South America
I judge from my Geography—
Volcanos nearer here
A Lava step at any time
Am I inclined to climb—
A Crater I may contemplate
Vesuvius at Home.

The earthquake wove ripples of terror in the minds of my Pompeii...
Trembling I looked towards the great Vesuvius of my emotions still offering me a hint of the bad days to come...

Yet I chose to belittle... And went on bottling my concern within the four walls of the city of my mind...

So one fine day... When I saw a layman hitting stones to see a spark...

The Vesuvius of my emotions erupted... Without a warn
And engulfed my Pompeii in a great ocean of long suppressed lava leaving only in some places a hint of some hardened souls...

...

Thus... The regret of catching the hint of Vesuvius about the unexpected exodus of my emotions... Only remained a prisoner of the past!

(Plaster cast at Pompeii)                    

                [THE TOUR GUIDE]

                “Ladies and gentlemen, here we are at Pompeii's
                fabled Thermal Baths where heated water was
                passed through duct work in the walls.  One can          
                imagine Nero himself stopping here on one of            
                his visits.”

[BONITO]

Bonito stepped out of the bathhouse and looked up.
Vesuvius rumbled - shaking ash and fire skyward.
Breaking into a run he sought the south road,
glancing back anxiously at the
vast dark cloud billowing down the mountain.

                "The principal city roads were recessed
                and wagons were required to have standardized
                wheelbases and clearances to fit in channels cut
                into the stone.  Follow me please to the residential
                area.”

He gained the road and his feet
pounded the stones of the “via stabiana.”
The cloud multiplied and fell on the city.
Ever deepening layers of ash clogged Benito’s path.
Heart pounding in his chest he lengthened his strides.

                “Leaving the opulent villas with their spacious
                atria, we now enter the market area where we
                shall see a display of remarkable interest.  During
                excavations, empty spaces were discovered in
                the ash deposits.”

The rising ash captured his left leg.
Bonito inhaled the fiery air and ******
forward into a burst of falling soot
but was unable to finish his stride.

                “Archaeologists poured plaster into the voids
                revealing the outlined bodies of Pompeiins
                trapped in their final moments.  Take, for example,
                this man caught in mid-step with no time
                to escape the life choking dust.”

*June, 2006

I am Vesuvius.
Beloved and seemingly sturdy and strong and safe.
People mill around my base,
Planting their food and livelihood in my soil.

People trust my seemingly sturdy and strong and safe appearance,
Not even considering the danger within me,
Until I erupt.

The swirling, boiling magma and the intense pressure form a deadly combination.
Everyone around me, everyone I hold dear is gone.
Everyone who talked and played and worked and lived near me is gone.
Everyone who utilized my resources.
Everyone that trusted me is gone.

It is then that I realize something about myself.
Inside that seemingly sturdy and strong and safe exterior,
I am toxic.

Early morning
and I arose-
Without warning
you'd propose
to dose me sweet,
and you'd persist
to give a treat:
and so you kissed.
Your roses bloomed
around your pearls
and you resumed,
while my toes curled,
to kiss me soft.
(And although I lay,
I stand aloft
In early day).

Rupture

It was the middle of December and you made sure to turn on your fan before you went to sleep.

It was the beginning of January and I suddenly understood why you kept your fan on as 'I love you' rolled out of your mouth like the smoke that loomed over Pompeii. You choking on your own words was a red flag. I guess the smoke was too thick for me to notice.

It was February and the lava began scorching my fingertips with each muffled 'I love you.’ Some people tried to run, I chose to melt to death.

It was March and I was hoping you were only cauterizing my wounds, protecting me from something more harmful. I was wrong. Nothing is more harmful than a natural disaster.

It was April and you had cremated me to ash. I realized your false ‘I love you’s were what caused the tectonic plates to shift.

It is May and I am still reminiscing on January.

In June I hope the fan in your room keeps you cool enough from the volcano that you are.

I am the prodigal daughter
of Hestia--
Goddess of hearth,
warmth,
embers that do not fade,
for they glow as softly
as lightning bugs.

But this time,
I will not be returning home.

Don't you see?

I've burned it down already.

Perhaps there shall exist no redemption
for my pyromanic sins.

They could not save
Sylvia Plath
as she ****** her head into the oven,
carbon monoxide stealing away
her last strands of breath.

(Sadness climbs up my throat in
stalagmites of flame,
rises from the chasm of my soul like bile,
like a phoenix reborn.)

They could not save
Joan of Arc,
whose flesh screamed out among
the ringlets of fire
and threads of cinder
that consumed it
so mercilessly.

(No, I am not a witch--
just a demi-goddess,
just a dangerous woman
But, unlike Joan of Arc,
I am no Saint either.)

They could not save Pompeii
whose inhabitants lay
victimized
asphyxiated
stolen
by the magma regurgitated by
the Almighty Vesuvius

(I cannot decide who I am
more similar to--
the inhabitants of Pompeii,
or the lava itself)

Perhaps then,
there is no saving a woman like me--
a woman forged from brimstone,
Hell's very own Femme Fatale.

I wear lighter fluid
atop my collar bone like its fragrance;
braid singed ribbon into my hair,
its ends charred and
curling upwards like tendrils of smoke;
rouge my lips with gunpowder.

Kiss me and
bite the bullet, darling--
make love to me
and you will combust.

But oh!

How these men will  bite their lip
at the thought of
******* me,
of dipping their fingertips
into the molten pools
that dwell between my thighs
similar to the way
a mere girl
(I, 16 years old)
is fascinated by the prospect
of baptizing her own melancholic
hands in candle wax.

(Who's the real ******* here, Baby?


Sincerely,
your Filthy Pyrophilliac.)


I am a
shadow charmer,
arsonist
the  Siren
of this Inferno
(wanted for her crimes).

Perhaps I was never the epitome of darkness,
perhaps I simply
lured the darkness towards me
(sorrow and the devil too.)

It's funny now that I think about it,
how the stars too reside in darkness,
how, when I wish upon them,
I am really only wishing on fire.

And where there is fire,
there is destruction;
it's no wonder all these dreams--
those of
love
magic
poetry--
have shuddered to ash.

Still, l I find myself making
snow angels in the ashes,
stick my tongue out,
let the remnants of desire
scorch my taste buds.

Here I lie
like an extinguished cigarette,
my use fulfilled and discarded.
But that's just fate,
stars ain't too fond
of nicotine, ya see,
ain't too fond of me
even though the very atoms
that comprise my being
are made of the stuff of galaxies.

But, oh, how these galaxies
have escaped my brooding grasp.

I do whatever it takes
to re-ignite what has been
lost--
chew on matchsticks,
let the splinters sear themselves
into my tongue;
lap at the iridescent gasoline puddles
that wade along
lonely streets corners;
howl beneath paper lanterns,
for both the sun and the moon
have forsaken me.

I do whatever it takes
to remember where I come from--
a state of limbo,
wherein I am simultaneously
angel (falling) |and| demon (the fallen)

What am I without flame?

Flame--
they could not save me from it,
from burning.

But perhaps the peril was never in burning;
perhaps it was in  burning out;
perhaps it was in disintegrating.