I live by myself from a fire,
I live from myself by a fire
I am subtracted by a fire
and who doesn't matter so much
as what (the fire said, the shadow of fire)
comes between. Death by fire, bodies crackling,
smoke so we don't see the other side, never.
I've seen enough of fire
but one can't turn one's back on death
without turning her back on life.
So sleep, it comes in sleep.
Wake up, the coffee, quick,
before dreams come disguised
as memories of sleep, the other side,
the chicken that crosses to get
lives in time while the egg that rolls
for the feeling of crossing lives in sleep.
To walk through flames and not get burned
by the fear, to be distinct just to
be extreme. The fear of fire become a fire
I walked through once, my ^ï¿½wants' intact,
complaining about the darkness, the alien,
the undestroyed destroyer my actions
slept with behind my back.
If the fires writes this, the fire reads this.
On the edges, might as well be water,
might as well as water, lazy lighthouses
sending smokesignals to each other
flattered by their fear! We live by what
we die to do. But the fire can be calm as seems.
The silence, the patience of fire
(whose dream we are). It only seems to rage
as our pillowtalk of origins is thunder
to the heroic cockroach of song. Yet we live
in such seeming, the feeling of fire become word,
the tyranny of mimetic denotation subverted
by aesthetic connotation. Self-generating,
shameless exhibition until a word douses
the flame by looking at it, the lost core
of loss, molten, molting, in its way, its prey.