today, they're all talking about the fires.
the people on TV, the voices on the radio,
the mouths that open and whisper
and softly touch tongues.  even the sky is

revealing black plumes of smoke,
flaunting shameless and seductive curves.
the rain's been too dry and the lightning
isn't wet enough, panic is
rising out of control in this
burning city.  that's

not all;
we have a crisis on
our hands- the balloons are
running out of air and even

the experts don't really know why,
and on top of those sinking rubber toys

my soul is losing moisture
faster than the crackling grass under the duress of flame.
i'm starting to see the subtle luscious contours
of fumes,
surrounding me.

i might not exactly be news-worthy
but if i catch, then
the forest might too.


i'm considered a reasonable loss, however.
they heard it might storm tomorrow. and everybody knows
that means they'll be safe-
because they all talk about it.




it almost stormed-
the sky spat and then
thought better of it, we
aren't worth the little bit of sultry
liquid clinging to

his mouth.  (were i the sky
i would give you every strand of saliva i had;
press it into your tongue and cheeks,
leave traces against your hot skin.)

the birds are dying because of spite, choking
on ink smothered air as they
seek escape.  we're still determining
the root cause but birds don't know about things
like arsony, because they just aren't like us.

similar, but not the same.  they don't light
matches to gasoline with red lips
and smile as they burn each other down,
like you and i
will.


breathe, won't you
dear?  don't gasp in my hands,
don't choke,
don't choke,
please,
don't leave me here
like this.




now, proud headlines read- our firefighters are
confident that they
are breaking through.
the death blow is coming and the flames
will starve.

i think they are looking
in the wrong places.
the fire hides, but i see the smoke of her
growing passions, stretching out

and grasping at the edges of her hands, climbing
like a climax that leaves you gasping,
oh,

the gentle dip between her breasts
is in the man that desperately
grabs the five dollars
from my hand like a snake
with cinder coal fingers.

(and i don't know if his burning greed for
my change is calories or
booze or drugs or a roof.)  the smoulder of her open lips is
in the sweating, middle aged man
walking determinately

across the ash black street and hoping
it burns an inch off his round gut,
eventually.  a glimpse of her parted thighs slips like smoke
behind the nice looking

young man
walking down the street,
with the bag over his shoulder putting wrinkles in his
suit.


this feverish city
is still being burned.