With regards to Thomas Sayers Ellis*
Look at the
Lucent lava lamps,
Dark craters
Hiring hands.
We walked,
Mimicking magma.
Hot, why is
This heat?
Forget Vulcan
And his illusion
Of kaleidoscopes,
A rip tide
On the shore
Of our conscious minds.
We held fire,
Pretending to swim
Underground,
But only out
Of pure respect.
Some had boots
Made with
The clippings
Of funky tripwire,
Others wore suits
With goggles
Clamped to their faces,
Gripping like
Bay Area earthquakes.
One-by-one,
Jang-strangs were
Attached to us and
Hurled into the Pit
With rhythmic rituals,
Waves of S and P
Flailed away
Like flags.
One nation
Under a new.
No one looked away
From the fiery daze.
No one wept.
