Find community amongst the dives
where the masses drink
like sailors,
sink like ships.
The wayfarer's watering hole, where
spirits stain scripture
written on bar napkins
and patrons serve
as a quiet reminder,
that I sold my megaphone
and bought a butane lighter.

It left me burning. I expected hollow, but never the all together searing smoking pain. An eternal scalding I cannot shake. I envisioned my eyes aglow, instead my inside set ablaze

I meant to write about the fire
I swear I did
But you did something clever
And within you hid

As I watch it dance
I see only your hips
As I feel its warmth
I taste only your lips

If you're the fire
Then I'm the wood
That you devour
Just because you could

It's a pleasure to burn

This morning,
I am a mourning sunflower

Willing to burn than
lose my deity’s warmth

Who dares **** a child
by burning their yellow?

It shivers and weeps,
and in oblivion it sleeps

your heart unmasks
to a dagger, already deep into my atriums,
until my muse is replaced
with the bleeding, and each stanza
is your shadow

in shackles. a poem is just a poem
until you perceive it
out of paper—in the silence,
scratching against your skull—until

it begins to burn, your body
bright-blue beneath, your secrets
streaming out like incense—until
it is a grave, with you
more alive in it.

a poem is just a poem until it bites,
until it howls, until it makes
our memory its metaphor
for midnight.

Eagles of stone stood valiantly outside
The rickety aged home of wood planks.
Though, were unsuccessful in their duty of protection,
As the roaring conflagration reduced the estate
To mere smoke amidst the icy air.