Burner Poem


Art happens when someone’s thoughts become another’s actions, • so sated by lust that now I am • denouncing love as a fiction, arithmetical and predictable, • a mythic and messianic attraction that is always • coming but never appears, at least not until • the moment has already passed (it figures), Masculin • Féminin/très terrible, et cetera, a stunting double • whose less-than-stunning features compete with what you came • to expect, never lives up to its previews, • those for which you settle, blurred nights of • hijinks and high stakes driving into your heart • anticlimactic subtext, predestined to experience disappointment, hardwired to • be ignored, dejected at having to accept this • replica of his, this imitation of Christ I • call my Self, a shadow whose costume I • pull-off with ease as if it were another • guy’s boxer-briefs, reality is a hypostatic lone-wolf whose • appalling tooth-and-nail caustic-dramatic comeuppance causes wails to remove • illusion from the throats of those who buy • •


into these things the way I once used • to, whose letting him use-you-until-you-feel-useless unglues you, • chews proof into you, ripping cords of veins • shooting pain like parables onto agnostic paramedics, stethoscopic • skeptics spitting on his stereoscopic image, a hardly-marketable • prophet preparing for the end since the beginning, • my stereotype is deafening, a skeleton with a • beard redefining expectations by becoming them, at least • in appearance, more bombastic than ambitious, a deposed • prince left without a kingdom to govern, yet • subject to a people who judge him, opinion • is just the Noisey Vice of the voiceless, • this is what happens to a theory with • too much time on its hands to practice • humility, a wealth of education luxuriates my ability • to criticize my enemies about whom I still • fantasize, jerking-it in the screening-room behind my closed • eyes, mind opened wide to make do with • what they have done to me, as demanding • •


as I am damned-good at this, casting-out demons • I coach in getting-me-off, witness the hair on • my palms attest to this anomaly of self-abuse • soothing the rawness of one’s opened wounds, acting • as if it is not a problem is • a way to two-step around this process, of • having to figure out how to shut my • mouth and keep them closed, admitting my defeat • futile to even muse about, pas de deux/ • auto-da-fé, paradox/paradigm (you decide) imagine an overactive • libido allowed to devour whomever it hungers after, • leaking like a bloated bladder this erotoleptic fever’s • Jackson Pollock splatter making of every broad a • lady-of-the-night, of light loads burdens more than any • back can take, what only a pro bent • over a barrel can handle, conquering inhibitions delimiting • boundaries I cross with casual acquaintances riding this • joystick as if it were a shotgun, transgressing • borders without any papers saying how far we • •


can go or what can and cannot be • done, I am an untranslatable question wearing a • fading halo, asking you out before the roll • of your eyes can turn me down, or • turn-off the charm I put-on full-blast, seeking heat • even if it leaves me burnt-out, going about • this appetite whole-hog, nothing half-assed, à propos and • pensive, anything but apprehensive, prodigal and nameless until • morning comes, melting on the tongue and meditating • on my own dissolution, a rake swallowing whispers • following after me, a wingèd worm glowing and • gloating rhetorical and making worth-it all of the • suffering this transgression elicits, perfecting the storm, I • am a garden amidst fires, misleading strangers swooning • over my blooming incendiary, lightning-witted and Hermes-footed, quick-as-silver, • a symptom or the syndrome (as if the • diagnosis matters), an imposter disaster-artist making of a • blue period a black movement, a comment crumpling • like unchecked cachet evaporating from watermarked paper wasted • •


in the soiled motel-bathroom-dawn of my reading’s alternative • diffusion, delivering me from this situation’s circumstance is • crippling disillusionment painting the pain-scorched pavement, vain and • glorious my pride is an angel showing the • wear of this road, flaming sword pointing-out its • route, tear-scarred, scorned, forlorn, burned-up, the conceit of • the sun is that he won’t ever stay, • goes away, divides existence into days, denies the • wax of our wings the sting of heavenly • rays, plays renegade games, throws-down things, drops bombs • confirming what we have long suspected if not • already known, showing in his nude light beauty • is two-timing all of us, off sleeping with • profanity and him on the weekends, cloaked in • his look-at-me alias, hoodwinking men swimming in the • poison of posing, the sun is posturing, sweating • desire making the mere beast more-savage, knowing full-well • that when all-is-not-well, a human being’s super-power is • denial, doing-away-with mirrors until clear-as-crystal the danger of • •


their dagger-edges smooths over, unable to see things • which make them uncomfortable, truth is torture, more • acceptable is willful blindness such as the devil’s, • who is not as black as he paints • himself, getting-off on being withholding, delaying the satisfaction • of enlightenment to help you attain it, wisdom • grants me the absence of fear as I • near her, returning from my travels bigger than • Gulliver after lifting the veil, sauntering from experience • into Sophia’s arms, wrapping my head around the • pregnancy of her pause, pondering why it took • me so long to get it, a latter-day • Gnostic unconcerned with the distractions of opinion spit • like venom by those with whom I was • born in the same decade, our only thing • in common is this dissatisfaction, this misfortune of • going so far only to be abandoned, the • light within me bows to the light inside • you, friend, yielding to silence ungilds the illusion, • •


reveals the real gold of the alchemists is • not-knowing, doubt repeated like a mantra, held like • a mudra, a silent conversation between author and • translator, poet and reader, men have heart-shaped pelvises • for an unspoken reason, penises are so-called from • the Latin for “tail,” says every pervert-linguist masquerading • as an anatomist, what I spin is my • own mind’s way of saying what cannot be • written down, love is gnosis, an accomplishment even • if and especially when its pursuit in any • iteration jump cuts to a chase cameras pose • for, every tryst’s chimæra a waif whose exploits • are revelations yet-to-be-savoured dressed in the rent raiment • of a pornographer’s apprentice, what if the Pythian • Sibyl took-up vaping (consider this), would that make • of habit an oracle, a Delphic Warped Tour/ • Up in Smoke sort-of-deal, addiction nothing more than • another name for the same thing: finding in • the haze of a heart’s confusion an answer?