#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.