#005

I am a man on fire.
My vision is gas
around me, flooded and shattered like glass.

I am iron, I am satire, I am fire
tiptoeing in the parking lot. I am paper,
I'm convinced it's paper, frozen and hot.

And ink written from the tips of fingers. I am exhaust fumes coughing
when it lingers.
I am the grease in the gutter

mixing with the yellow.
I am the whiskers of the man,
I am his cello.

I am the sound leaking from a broken gun,
I am entropy. I am the sun.
I am the knuckles cracking

from an old forgotten song,
hard to remember and
frightfully long.

I am a tricorne hat. I am beaded and jeweled,
I am slender and I am fat. I am the man under the sink
with his head against the wall.

I am a white painted hall. I am Harry Caul and I am not.
I am living of a broken heart but from a blood clot. I am
dark and I am pale.

I am the coffin and I am the nail.
I am gone, I am a liar.
I am a man on fire.

ODE TO THE MAN IN THE SUBWAY WHO'S SO USED TO SLEEPING THERE HE'S LOST ALL FIBROUS QUALITIES IN HIS NECK SO THAT HIS HEAD KIND OF RESTS IN HIS LAP

It seems as though you've been here for a long time. A curious thing; noticing you. I couldn't help but wonder how your heart beats, how your lungs expand. There is a touch of incivility in my brief gaze. What happened to put you here? Here, not so much meaning here socio-economic life perspective-wise, but more, here as in in this oddly contorted position. Your only reasonably weathered Yankees cap doesn't suggest complete rock-bottom brokeness. Is this an unavoidable medical condition, or is it a result of years of mental and physical decline? I don't mean to probe you with these silent questions, you sleep so peacefully among all this noise, but your particular contortion is, without doubt, absolutely spectacular. Perhaps there are brighter days ahead yet for you sir. An internationally known performance contortionist, or a secret no-ventilation-shaft-to-small kind of secret spy. Perhaps better careers suit you still and possibly this is all just old news; a performance spy, journeying to perform your next act of televised performance disguised international espionage. Only you can know for sure; a gentleman of many dark secrets and romances and secret dark romances no doubt. At any rate, I salute you sir, as I pass, I salute you.

The Curious Case Of The Dog Who Violently Fucked His Owner And Then Another Dog In The Ass

He never wanted to be called Pip, or Pippy as the master oft mentioned him to friends, eyes glazed over from the puff puff drinky drink habits he never quite understood the purpose of. What is in a name?, he tried to rationalize. They are the ones with names; but somehow, lost in this carpeted desert of something of 1000 feet squared, he felt compelled to care. To care about his name, about his purpose, about his meaning in their lives. He wanted so much more of them, he wanted to give himself to them. He desired full, unanimous integration emotionally. He was not an object, but a true member of this space, of their lives. They assumed he was blank inside. Raw feeling, joy sadness hunger in heat in pain. He knew he was so much more and more of them is what he expected. To them he gives himself, to them he gives loyalty.

The master's suit and tie. His remarks mocking as the wise one watches on. Pippy is peering into your soul. He sees your reflection in the mirror as you see it and more. He sees your weakness. He sees your shame. What animal hides behind fabrics and smiles? To feel joy is to feel joy, to feel anger is to feel anger. Why hide behind ties, and suits, and shiny smelly shoes oh so good to taste. Pippy wears his loyalty, his love as a badge, as plain and true as his doghood hangs freely. Thoughts roam fiercely: What is man, this master? Why does he possess dominion over me? Why does he possess me at all? I am not an object. I am fire cast into flesh I am truth I do not lie I do not hide I do not conceal. I am not your possession sir, and you are not my captor. But lo, you are my possession. The animal which makes himself an object is an object indeed and though he may lie to himself, to the world he cannot lie, his truth is as true as mine. I am living animal, you are living object; possessed by possessions. Roaming thoughts, these thoughts so constant.

On these walks he takes me. In front of him I march, drawing him as a horse draws a carriage empty. He will know soon my truth. I shall impose it upon him, imprint it on his soul. He will know fire and flesh and birth and rebirth. He will know his origins, the life of man, solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short. I will awake him before I end him. He will live before he dies. This rope around my neck will be the rope from which he hangs. BANG BANG goes the drum of justice! BANG BANG goes my heart! Beast will reign as nature without his thoughts and without his words. I will purge his heart and his mind and freed and shackle-less I will direct this ship of life to infinity. Come come, let us be free!

Grrr, bark, whoof.