I incinerate myself

with my own gasoline, with my own match

with my own love, or lack of love.

My fire burns me

like a roasted skeleton, with one arm

reaching into the darkness, for what?

The firefighters will classify me

as smoking in bed

even if,

there’s no cigarette.

All of us are dying to know

what will set us on fire.

We are so wet

no spark, can catch.

damp, dreary, lives

with no hope.

We give fire to our insides, like an infernal suicide

reborn, from the ashes, of our phoenix passion

We can fly, like our sparks, floating to heaven

Hell reaches the gates of the Gods

like smoke

like Samson

crying-out, for one more chance

“I will avenge my enemies!”

If you strip-away

your tender tinder

like the barking mad bark

of a redwood tree

you bleed from the inside-out

a selfish sacrifice of dried blood

You warm the world

with your forest-fire passion, fueled by the ages of slow growth

all of your rings, burned up in an instant

incense

making sense

of our material

existence.

4 thoughts on “Smoking in Bed, and My Apartment Fire

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