The mid noon sky bleeds out; it bruises in flames.
Arsonists hold their gassers to my face.
In their grisly field of vision, I am a delectable
vapor, born to flit away.
Regard not the orange cones, nor the caution tapes:
these gates hold little significance to them.

(Then the other 'a-word' comes to mind: anarchists)

Prior to this, they had presented themselves
as chess pieces to fall in love with—little do they know,
I've an animus for them. As stupid as I may appear,
I know it's a game!

Unzipping out of incognito mode, they have unleashed
their razor blade. They whizz their wings.
Here they come, coming for me.

Here I go again: counting sheep,
blinking for one whole eternity.

Oh doctor! I'm in dire need of your vampiric syringe.
Swill my peaking adrenaline— at this rate, I'll go mad.
I shall never recuperate.

Mollify my entirety.
Teach me to rollick like angels do. I beg you.

The day the earth set me forth
flowers blossomed in my mother's chest
and ivy tucked itself beneath her tendons.
Perhaps that is why I forfeit good men for anarchists.

I was born neither one thing
nor the other.

she looked back and asked, “do we have enough candles?”

“enough to start up the Great Chicago Fire all over again.” I replied.

and she said,

“to watch that whole city burn to the ground would be quite the enchanting piece of captivating imagery.”

we lit the candles,
and danced with demons
like Indians in celebration
upon a pile of burning books
as we sang songs with sirens
under our drunken culture
while the troubadours
and lyricists without hats
played the diabolical lutes
and hellish harp strings of fire
on chaotic imperfections
we piddled on the face of society
and bet against the fixed fight
as the troops of tomorrow
paraded down the alternative streets
like ants in the kool-aid on a warm
breezy summers day
half the neighborhood
was drunk with rage
and the other half was dead
rabble-rousers, blithe and tinkered,
all stood up at once
like agitated cobras and
torched the night sky with incendiary
controversy and we made love
in the streams of submachine guns
that flowed like the cocktails
of Molotov under the arsonists belt
until the ****** of our memories
glittered on the broken buildings
of our minds.