Down In Flames

Everything I love goes down in flames

“I think this life
I lived more in one day
than all my years.”

When I walk in the memories
I can’t face,
I can’t take
or when.

Little balls of scribbling,
string in wide chalk lines,
mess around the cork-board
motes getting held up
in spaghetti western silver screens,
by my pupils
as six shorter bandits.

I tote all the blame.
Seems I’m going down
in a Fokker D.III
the bad guy again.

Painting time
to cover up the lie
of my favorite poisons,
that I’m crying spade aces.

Rolling down the cheek
a suicide Queen of Hearts
I pinned to my sleeve.

Carried aloft
by a fo-fum giant,
dragging drop chains
seven clubbed heads smiling,
a couple diamonds,
the Cheshire’s cat-of-nine-tails.

They say the sky never falls,
but I’ve seen it peel
like a cigarette burn
through motel wallpaper.

My steps leave
echoing prayers,
barging in
dead languages.

The record player in my mind
spins messages
on old vinyl wax.
I sometimes mouth the words.

They were never mine
to utter in the mirror
just fogged names
of towns,
freeway signs
I passed behind.

I thought I saw her face again
in the licks
of gas-blue hue
but all I saw
was my burning pitch
left in silhouette.

A coin in time
I keep calling tails,
but the chemical
doesn’t give a damn.

I carry the ash
on my shoulders,
a pearl of thunder.
Low and golden,
like summer bees
vibrating in my chest.

The last
splashing in rain boots
at the edge of April puddles.

Like the branches
of a willow tree
I swear the sky
leaned in
to listen,
as I said:

I’m not falling.
I’m not floating
through slow-bloom hours.

Let me burn
in vivid color
a flare from
the belly of the story.

I ran through the ruin,
bared my souls,
ribbon,
naming a few stars
as I went.

What I was
is still flickering
the pier
in the space
between the bloom.

It may be enough
to go down in flames
but make it beautiful,
if you can.

Like a dawning, polluted sky
man’s grand march
measured in minutes,
hours, & seconds.