"matchbook" poems
For every single barracuda smile.
Every apple that we didn't bite. All the dull exotic things I never had the chance to say. The way the ocean is louder at night, the glittering bones of the city, the taste of black cherries. For every paper star, and liquid street, suburban summer mattress like a shrine.
For hands like deep-sea divers through your hair.
The unknown red interior of you, the foreign countries of your thoughts. For every back of matchbook message, every finger tracing up my thighs, and for our reckless lips rubbed raw and red. For all the casual knives of conversation, the snow like stained glass underneath the sky.
For illuminated cities half-submerged.
Every exquisite impulse and grass-scented infidelity. For my heart like glass, like coal, like diamond. The salt and starless seas that crave a sailor. For the hand-grenade of lust and the ugly gardens of regret. For your eyes like earthquakes, like cigarettes, like disaster.
For every dark-haired, blue eyed boy.
Mar 22, 2013
Mar 22, 2013 at 10:27 AM UTC
doves drowning
in the storms wicked air
watch with empathy as they struggle in the
thrashing tides of the rainswept sky
watch as the fall from grace
in the warm tears of rain
bernie was waiting on
doomsdays last train
he kept his lunch in a sack
along with the face he gonna wear
when he comes up fore the good lord
but what worried him was if the other fella
had his ticket
he would toss his coin on
the hand he was dealt
a good man misunderstood
a simple man living a complex life
contortionist of the fable
she wrote her own storied life
on the back of a matchbook cover
after all its the flame of her heart
that set ablaze many a mans inner pervert
she is waiting on that last train too
with a devilish certainty of her destination
but she aint too worried
she knows hell is just like miami in july
doves nestled in the hands of time
make a soft sound that stirs the heart
sounds like a love affair
sounds like free flight on a summer breeze
feels like home
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 5:59 PM UTC
Hiro was such a clever guy.
he always said the funniest little jokes, even when he was Hiro-chan, to me.
he used to act like a cat when he was frustrated and, and-
remember what he said to the mailman that day, in like june?
about how he looked like an angry Hotei-osho?
we all laughed and that mailman, that man’s face went radish red.
he was such a good lawyer, Hiro.
i mean, he wasn’t rich and powerful, no
but he did good things, though.
like Sayotoma’s lease –
without Hiro, he would’ve lost the store!
and then where would we get our tempura? huh?
oh, Hiro, you are so much fun to talk about.
and i hate that all i have of you now is smoldering incense and an expired passport.
i poured a cup of water on your grave today, you know.
it was a hurting kind of hot under summer’s sun – it’s august, after all.
some steam came off, and it sounded like you sighing
and i said more loudly than i cared no problem, Hiro
and my wife looked at me, with a misting eye,
while my son kept flicking matches
from that cheap matchbook we got at Sayotama’s place.
all the failed matches collected between his sneakers
and i thought that *i wish Sayotama didn’t make all his matches
so **** fragile.
they burst and blacken in a second,
and you don’t have the chance to really light something,
and they just end up falling between the sneakers
of some kid who can’t even remember you,* Hiro.
Jul 12, 2010
Jul 12, 2010 at 11:21 PM UTC
I wrap my arms about my torso and brush my thoughts 'gainst you,
crying.
*Rainwater best cures a torn-soul
when boiled in a *** atop
a burner left burning all night.*
Crying,
the sky giveth us wonders and taketh the wonders away.
O' the water's down a'boilin'.
Ye' it all boils down to you.
To you and how you go.
Ye' when you go, you go.
O' where you a'goin' too?
See that go-getter go-gettin' his girl–
Good for him. Good for him.
Send some good for the man with a will when he wills his will to be.
And good for the fingers who first feel a fortune 'fore the fortune is seen.
And good for the addicts relapsing in attics with kisses of dopamine.
And good for the thoughts of you that brush against my skin,
that for days on will hold–
*Eighteen! Eighteen! I say eighteen years is the bridge,
the forest fires will forever forget to burn!*
I say give it a year and call him on that telephone and
he will answer on that telephone and
you will beg his heart come home, beggin' a'bargainin'–
*Eighteen! Eighteen! I have missed you for some time,
bent-to-bet a century's pass'd since we last kissed.*
One match done been lit in the county matchbook.
Such is the click-click of a gas stove igniting,
I call that rip-exciting, torn-enticing, fates be a'dicing–
*Eighteen! Eighteen! It was another day–
It was another life.*
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 9:52 PM UTC
Betty Coutu drives a mean Rambler
takes us public school, heathens
to catechism on Saturday morn
Smokes a cigarette like a prima-ballerina
Shifts three on the wheel
drives that clutch to the floor
with her thick leg
Makes the engine roar
a little
“to warm it up”
Turns with the grace of swan
Pavlova or belladonna
Something of beauty
just to watch her
three-finger the wheel through a turn around
all while taking a drag
exhales to ceiling
to music on the radio
Elvis? Roy O, Patsy Cline
circa 1959
Betty's hair is short, uncombed
but she's not without lipstick
lights her smoke with amazing matchbook skills
Calm
like a woman who does it often
takes on wear
with I'm in love, and I don't give a care
She shifts and turns
cigarette balanced like gossip on lips
or between
those first two fingertips
Smoke swirling
amid kids squabbling and whining
in the back seat
No belts back then
till Dad got home
to keep them in line
But, I bet on Betty every time
to get us there
I want to drive like her, so badly!
I sit beside her-- ossified
watching
her smoke and handle
like a total expert
I am distracted
and will surely fumble
my catechism answers
for the nuns
cataclysmically
She drops us off by an icy foot slide
I swear to God to stop back later when we're done
...with prayer and penance
recitation... and resolvings
to sin no more
Once we're out the door--
back to that forbidden foot-slide
Always had a plan for fun
So did Betty's son
the hemophiliac
Bless myself like an Olympian
and pray for Johnny
before he joins me for a run
hemophilia:
a medical condition in which the ability of the blood to clot is severely reduced, causing the sufferer to bleed severely from even a slight injury. The condition is typically caused by a hereditary lack of a coagulation factor, most often factor VIII.
Mar 24, 2019
Mar 24, 2019 at 7:31 PM UTC
*"A lightning flash... then night! Fleeting beauty
By whose glance I was suddenly reborn,
Will I see you no more before eternity?”*
-Charles Baudelaire, "To a Passerby"
The material of the scene burns and
grays, burns and grays in my mind:
City soot in the frost. Cracked plastic.
Broken glass. Cheek creases where you
said your name. Salt stains on a denim cuff.
Scruff. Tartan scarf. Navy wool. Feather
down, laces, leggings, a buckle. Teeth,
fleece, a crumpled hotel matchbook.
No heat lamp here, where we wait and
meet, wait and meet on the windiest
night. Would you scoff if I said
"Love is two strangers trading fire.”
Smaller matter, now, an Altoid tin of
cherished ashes. I have it, and it murmurs
your lines to me, when I crave that kind of burn.
A familiar ice cube down the back of the neck.
These thoughts have sunken—a bag of pennies
in my gut like a phantom step on a dark staircase,
or the imitation of death in a dream.
Saying something about the lateness of the 16,
You cupped your hand, to shelter the flame.
I try to remember the melody.
The harp strings at the nape of
my neck sang mid-shiver, and you
said something else, which I couldn’t
hear over the choir under my hat.
This missing line is my mind’s one
sound conception of Infinity.
And that’s enough for flint.
A lightning flash…then night!
A flame frustratingly lit, but profoundly felt.
A gasp, a gust like a god's grace, like a song.
Like just enough time for a quick addict’s fix,
like the length of a single, ****** matchstick.
Will I see you no more before eternity?
And do you by chance have a light?
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 5:04 PM UTC
When I was little, I stuck scissors into the electrical outlet
something I never would have had the urge to do if my parents hadn't told me it was dangerous
I was a rocket pop, always standing too close to the edge,
always carrying a matchbook in my pocket
I'm not the only one who flirts with death
Death is the quarterback, death is the prettiest girl on the cheerleading team
Death is popular at parties
And when someone seems so out of my reach like that, I tend to romanticize them
So I fantasized about pills that shone like pearls
I envisioned ribs sticking out from my skeletal frame, finally frail enough to ****** the object of my desires
I thought about razor blades scattered like flower petals on the bathroom floor
Etching memento moris into my skin
I dreamed of fenders and pavement rushing up to meet my lips for one last kiss
God, I had the biggest crush on death
But so did everyone else
And I saw them falling further in love as if they were tumbling from a skyscraper
This is not a love poem, this is a goodbye
Because I have instead become infatuated with beautiful things
I am a creator, so I must stop destroying myself
Dear death
I don't want to be just another girl who doesn't look when she crosses the street, hoping to meet you on the other side
I will be okay on my own, and I'll keep the scissors locked up in the craft cabinet
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 7:29 PM UTC
It's 11:11 make a wish
Look out the spotty window
See all the frowns
And boring towns
See how powerful the words we use are
They can cut deep
Deeper than the most violent assault
Buildings and obelisks of befuddlement
Pressed for time
Lemon scented tiles
Scrubbed
No mold
Personal preference
Common courtesy
And common sense
Scarce but invaluable
A face only a mother could love
And a father can lie to
Coulda
Woulda
Shoulda
Didn't
Searching for carrion
Give way
To the wayside
ECNALUBMA
In the rear view
The worms eat us
The early birds catch the worms
The cat nabs the worm
After being resurrected by satisfaction
And the night owl writes the tell-all
Put the ear to glass
Put the glass to the door
And listen closely
To sound of knuckles cracking
And the chattering of coffee shop patrons
Indian givers going back on their word
Fingerless gloves
Prim and proper
Promptly pummeling
Tunneling to tomorrow
Well done
Slim to none
Fat chance
The local native's tongue
Sold fresh and farm raised
On any given day
You can find demi-gods
Playing a a pick up game
Matchbook
Matchbox
Mismatch socks
Pick up sticks and stretchmarks
Just stay the night
So we can wish this all away together
It's 11:12 open your eyes
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 1:22 PM UTC
A silhouette leaned back
Grey smoke distorted features demure;
Swirls riddled—smooth jazz syncopation
Her rouge lips cut through
The darkness.
She took a long drag on her
Cigarette, smoke rings evaporated
A halo around her.
Midnight blue eyes surveyed
The Bijou Café
Carpet pooled on the floor,
Blood soaked with wine,
Enclosed by onyx sheets,
The far wall a mirror.
A reflection of the souled and soulless.
Bar welcome strangers, friends,
The lonely.
Sharing drinks and memories
Vines intertwined customers
A perchance meeting;
Rendezvous of sorts.
Nameless faces and acquaintances
Dotted the room, a familiar skyline.
Lonely tower missing.
Smooth black fedora
Hearts sank ships as
Waves of embarrassment
Enveloped her; disappointment.
Crestfallen her eyes downtrodden
Soared with a door creak.
Black fedora entered,
Smooth—slick as oil
Eyes were hidden beneath
A veil of night;
Silence became him.
Hush fell on the crowd
As the shadow took the stage
Light pierced through,
Illuminating him.
Orbs locked
Reservation started to pass,
Voice velvet smooth
Played every heartstring
Notes of excitement
Tantalized her veins,
Pulse quickened;
Echoing every tempo change.
Music coursed through her being
Sensual; seductive
Notes caressed curves, valleys
Spaces in between.
Emotion—chord dependent
Voice penetrated skin
Music flowed through her.
A mountain peek high
Mind clouded—
Breath escaped her lungs.
Quiet murmur answered her comedown
An empty stage; stalwart eyes
Fingers replaced music
Lips brushed hers; taste—electric
Smile turned smirk; hollow presence
Musky cologne in wake.
Magnetic pull forward
Fedora exited
Midnight eyes transformed to dawn;
Abandoned beneath the awning
Familiar skyline flowed liquid.
Bijou Café
Neon sign loomed dark
Save for a letter
I illuminated.
Heart tendrils retreated,
Back to roots; betrayed
Tears turned to water
Liquid guilt—love died.
Fingers loosed
Memory;
Small matchbook of shame
Lingering of once upon a time
In the gutter; pouring rain.
Feb 19, 2010
Feb 19, 2010 at 7:56 PM UTC
Man, my head hurts,
it feels like
I've been hit by a freight train!
What's that you say?
It was raining
kinky-women
everywhere.
I'm a super freak,
I lost complete control,
got out of hand,
did a striptease
in Tijuana last night!?
**** that sunlight's bright,
please close those blinds!
What's that you say?
I got in a little fight
in Tijuana last night!?
No wonder
I've got this swelling,
a huge black-eye!
Hey, has anybody
seen my wallet
or my skivvies!?
Jesus, who's matchbook is this!?
"Pepe's Donkey Shack"!
Who the hell's Lupita!?
And you say I'm a freak!?
It looks like you're the one
who tweaked
in Tijuana last night!!!
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 10:43 PM UTC
*A writer writes…
so that’s what I do.
Not that I must
But it’s the right thing to do.
It’s not always easy
to lay down a line
on a small scrap of paper
that’s so hard to find.
Expressive nouns and passionate verbs
they assault my brain and
take me away.
There’s no way to dictate them
out on a page.
So I write them all down
any place that I can.
While at the bar,
a napkin will do.
Or in my car,
a matchbook or two.
A Post-It will get me by
in a pinch.
Or any other paper
I’m happy to find.
And into my shoebox
I tucked them away.
I laid them right there
for another day.
Occasionally I’d come back
to see what they say.
Reading them over
again and again.
Into my brain,
that's where they have gone.
Stuck in my mind
for a decade or more.
The shoebox is gone now
from so long ago…but
the memories still linger
inside my brain and
out to my fingers
they continue to flow.
I write them all down
and expand on those thoughts.
Remembering the memories
I once thought were lost.
An explosion of words
pouring out on the page.
These many little thoughts they
now have a stage.
The lasting memories
are now down in print.
The shoebox is gone
but the words are in ink.*
Apr 27, 2017
Apr 27, 2017 at 8:06 PM UTC
I want to go back
To Crackerjacks
And KoolAid on ice.
Ice cream sandwiches
And Chick O Stick candy.
That would be so nice.
Double feature matinees
At the local movie show
With cartoons in between.
Car crashes and then the
Cliff hanger serials
Were the best we’d ever seen.
Things like snow days, and
Skinny dipping swimming holes
Great on hot summer days.
And matchbook motors
On the spokes of our bikes
After school every day.
Snow cones and soda pop
Then we turned in the bottles
For two pennies to by sweets.
Snowball forts in the winter time
That were serious business
On every neighborhood street.
Things were so simple then
We each had a list of what
We wanted Santa to bring.
Some wanted ritzy stuff
And others only wanted
A **** Tracy decoder ring.
Life was almost all about
Going to school and then
Waiting for classes to let out.
And though there are joys
For grown girls and boys
It felt good to run and shout!
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 5:26 PM UTC
My 5 o’clock shadow shielded my 4 o’clock guilt
The shady gentleman in the corner is a no one
The man to his left, a soapbox of stilts
Still, a matchbook
Strikingly same
A celestial speaker
A back of green to maim
Jul 22, 2012
Jul 22, 2012 at 11:27 PM UTC
I go outside to sit on the steps,
and fumble in my pocket for cigarettes.
I flip the top and start thinking
about her, and my great regrets.
I hate thinking so I begin to look
through my pockets for my matchbook
and my heart starts sinking
as I find the torch I used to use to cook.
It was my utmost favorite flame,
yet whom other than myself is to blame?
We were in love while drinking,
yet when we burned it was always the same.
The same days and,
the same ways;
the same daze and
the same, weighs
heavily
on my heart,
in my brain.
She loved me, yet I was unsure
of whether or not to endure
my ego shrinking,
and becoming impure.
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 9:03 PM UTC
Evening is the time when the shadows come alive and become crisp in a flickering light, that it is no longer yellow. White, neon, unnatural. No more it resembles candle flame. It looks like a ruthless moonshine which scatters from a ghost lantern. I wake up, not from a dream, but the reality of life and get up, not out of bed, but out of the chair of common life convict. I slip out of clothes and shoes worn by ordinary man. I released the tie, honorary sash won on vanity competition that made me tight, suffocating like a noose. It is not merciful to assassinate me in a flash, but squeezes the breath of life out of me every day, bit by bit. I put my true outfit, specially sewn soft seams on blue silk. My neck is naked, free at last, adorned by corrugated blue organza collar woven by hand, each thread is a smile and a tear streaked with golden sigh. I smeared my face with white paint to hide the traces of blush caused by shame over the living, high capillary pressure of too many emptied cups of bitterness and dark circles as a result of each conscious decision. Hiding clues of eyebrows and transforming into myself, the Harlequin. Painting white to cover the everyday life and return to the carelessness, to the easy present. With the practiced movement I put away my pomades of transformation and close spell cabinet. Last look at the silver reflection and I'm ready for a trip through the deserted streets of the matchbook labyrinth.
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 1:59 PM UTC
My love,
today they found you in the alley,
an abandoned porcelain doll.
Your cheeks flushed and lips stained from the cold -
left shoeless in the snow.
Fist wrapped around your empty matchbook -
burnt out - used up - dead.
Those tight jeans and rag of a shirt
looked uncomfortable
even in repose.
At first nobody noticed.
Much to do, this New Year’s Day:
resolutions to be broken.
No time to stop and smell the corpses.
They get younger every year
One cop coughed to the other
a cough of disgust.
They made you a nameless number.
A statistic doesn’t feel the burn of frostbite.
It lends itself to jokes -
and forgets humanity.
In death you are
The Jefferson Avenue Whoresicle
and sooner or later, forgotten altogether.
I can’t forget you,
on display –
hiding in that most undignified uniform.
Your eyes stabbing straight though me.
New Years Eve,
you tried to sell me a warmth.
I ignored you,
avoided your dagger eyes like the sun
I walked away,
Not after I saw how lonely
how frightened
how cold you were standing there
alone.
I can only image your visions
as you burned through those matches
and prayed for some John to come to your rescue.
You can finally rest
in a bed of your choosing.
No judgment passed.
No cold nights on the street.
No home to fear going back to.
It’s all over now.
Nov 30, 2010
Nov 30, 2010 at 4:18 PM UTC
Searching for a book of matches,
I came across one of your poems
from 1993. It wasn't written on a
matchbook; no. It was written on
a page torn right from my heart.
The line about how a blind man
helped you to see that words hold
more love than truth still burns my
eyes. Seems you were right; and
you were wrong, too. The ink was
no longer as blue as your eyes
that day when we last held hands.
That day you penned these words
to my heart. That very day; our last.
Your poetry used to make me smile,
or laugh, or curse your soul for writing
words that I could never seem to find.
This poem was your best; your last.
The ink has faded and ran in places
from all these years of tears shed and
long dried. More tears would do no good.
I can hardly read these faded lines. You still
would not be here to kiss them away,
to tell me that everything is going to be
alright; no.
r ~ 5/8/14
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 10:03 PM UTC
Inspired by “The Burning Giraffe” by Salvador Dali
I am defined by what clutters my drawers:
• Aortic—a tattered matchbook with a phone number I never called
scrawled to the inside cover as an inscription to everything
I never wanted. A half-empty can of butane with a missing
cap alongside a dollar’s worth of pennies that weight a scrap
torn from a newspaper tragedy: four killed, faulty smoke
detectors to blame.
• Ankle—a charred picture, curled in upon itself and kept as a reminder
of what I could become; a blackened nest as an omen of
losing all I’ve ever known and an ointment tube, squeezed
in the middle as a talisman against blistering tempers.
• Thigh—an empty Zippo with a scarred case, dull and pointless; a coiled
stove element with an ashen haze that could testify that water
doesn’t douse all flames; and an oily fuse, plucked from the top
of my head to serve as a yardstick of minutes, seconds, then
nothing.
• Knee—a fine layer of charcoal dust and half of a briquette from last
summer’s backyard barbecue when the wind kicked up to spray
red embers into the air like a meteor shower, streaking in bright
sparks and fluttering to shrieks and stop-drop-rolls along dry grass
until the itching ceased and the bubbles formed in small foamy
patches along arms and strapless backs and sun-red cheeks.
Oct 11, 2010
Oct 11, 2010 at 5:30 AM UTC
"I'm not angry," barks
the man-child with fingers
clenched into mittens
made of tendons
and brow line hunched
like the backs of cavemen.
The veins
that line his neck
form boiling canals
when he's quicker
to set ablaze
than a paper doll
in a brush fire.
The annals of his ancestry
could fit into a matchbook--
a pocket-size anthology
of swinging *****
and temper tantrums.
The sweat his pores harvest
both quench
and drown him.
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 6:03 PM UTC
mother
watch me burn
through
these matchbook girls
all flimsy cardboard
and acrid sulfur
so dim
a soft spring whistle
blows them out
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 8:38 PM UTC
Cricket to cricket
Mouth to mouth
A horse in the garden
A hole in the mouse
A moon crash landing on the roof of this house
Glasses to ashes
Dust enough
An army of lions
Couldn't figure this out
A print too dark
A matchbook on fire
An imp in the corner
With a spoon and a lighter
A line in the middle
A sheep in the hay
A boy with a fish
Thinks of something to say
A band in a march
A bulb with a glow
A group of people
With somewhere to go
A square and a circle
A line and a string
A mass of a miracle
Begins suddenly to sing
Apr 4, 2010
Apr 4, 2010 at 9:40 PM UTC
the dynamic of an unlit
cigarette
dangling
electric from my loose smirk
swoons me
into momentary ecstasy!
something
about the way you're almost
slipping right out from under me,
the way
you tug at my bottom lip, hovering,
anticipating ecliptic
friction heave release
(bouncing a breath out of me).
my eyes wax full moon.
then,
a lunging focus
on the sphinx in your pupils narrows my gaze,
and I croon
at the tingling peaks of my cheekbones.
a silent invitation,
hungry,
waiting,
for lips to purr in reply
for your honey eyes to melt at the edges.
gooey pinpricks up the spine baby,
some roller coaster ride you are.
tracing a meticulous outline, mouth
dancing up the neck,
caressing fingertips, and
a sharp breath
before a jump over the ledge to certain heaven,
sailing
down a matchbook strip
pooling the air with sparks
and sighs,
landing feet first
as I light my cigarette on fire
and drag my liquid eyes up to the sky.
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 3:45 PM UTC
Kerosene passion,
matchbook teeth,
you strike your tongue
and breathe on me.
Poison envy,
acid breath,
oh, how I'd dilute
all your wealth.
Silver beauty,
copper soul,
I know how quickly
you'll corrode.
Brimstone anger,
iron face,
come back again
and do your worst.
Dec 10, 2010
Dec 10, 2010 at 7:59 PM UTC
I've said too much, I've lost my head, I've given up
I have nothing left.
The parchment paper rips down your throat.
As you tear your voice down every note,
The word “ihateyou”
**** every song.
A chill in the ear is a bell tones throng.
Believe that somethings wrong, cuz it ******* is! Believe that you're in love, cuz you're a ******* kid!
You cannot hold onto,
Stuffed blankets and pillows,
Live by a matchbook,
Head next to the gallows,
The heat from a sun has now died with the billows.
No air or ox-y-gen is capable resuscitation,
To stoke up this flame from dead coals in this bastion,
Each illusion is frozen by the heat ******* electron.
Division/deviation from a path that I abandon.
The futile, failure, falling to the knees view of a god that I do not cling to.
This songs about existence,
The pain in a distance,
Reminiscent,
Of a horizon,
Built on grandeur and heart omissions.
****** by a necropolis,
Of soul stealing black hole mouths.
Forgotten by its maker,
When the heartless chopped him to the ground,
Fraught with false oaths.
Suburbia disintegrates to ash and leaking gouache.
Bleed out.
Bleed out.
Bleed out.
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 1:54 AM UTC
I'm spending some time in the forest, sleeping in the dirt
I'd call it soul searching but I treasure the ambiguous
It's more of all inclusive whateverthefuck
I felt like getting in touch with my primitive side
The concept is a gnawing rat behind my drywall brain
Something inside repressed by social structure
Everything was going pretty well
I found a squirrel, slow clap, am I right?
Cut the cute little ******* open
and fed myself with the grace of a sick dog
Shortly after I felt better about my masculinity
it's been cheapened so many times before
In that moment, I went for a little stroll
I stumbled upon that tree we carved our names in
the symbol of our love held up nicely
Unlike the practice and actuality
In this moment, I wonder what lime disease tastes like
Then, casually, I remove my matchbook from my pocket
along with the kerosene from my bag
I circle the tree, covering it as far as I can reach
Distributing it in the way a child tosses autumn leaves
on the last day of fall
I smile, watching the flames meet the sky
Sharing mutual agony with the tree
I am cynical
I am heartbroken
I am on fire
Apr 17, 2016
Apr 17, 2016 at 3:10 AM UTC