Ink and Fire

There’s a poet using the same words as me. Stars are the fireworks that get us going. My predecessors scribble with my hands and paper is on fire. Black ink only. We read ourselves in the reflection. Telepathy. The ancestors speak to me through poetry and love. Whisper. Hear them through the trees. I am the line between two poets, connecting in the midnight sky. We weave together the words in which this life is written. The page is hot and angry. It weeps for me. I wipe tears and ink smudges into oblivion. What did it say? It glimmers into nothing like the stars. My mind forgets where it came from.

At night, hands remember when they grab the pen. I write in flames again.

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earthquake.
the               sh
  ground          ak
                            es-
you spit butterflies,
I
      swallow.

a rumble in my stomach
reverberates in
          dirt,
b l o s s o m i n g   flowers.
sunlight, sweetness,
fruit of my          intestines.

 t
 r
ee  of your      lips
    basking in wet dew.
foggy morning-
        I see       you.
                                        n
I breathe     your      i                  b
                           ra                      ow    
and burst
into     bright  light.

Aside

Syntax

We’ve been experimenting with sound and syntax in my poetry workshop. I gave it a try on my own.
For Gertrude Stein, because, what is sense?

Flickering flames flatten firey fire. Jump, dance, sway like trees in summer breeze. Swish, swoosh. Leaves laugh loudly. Wick, Bick, click. Glass protects wax. Maple syrup air breathed like cooling pancakes. Sugar is as bad for you as snake venom. Ouch. Put plastic parts apart and sew your pants properly. Light show, light show. Dancing fluid, talking messages, Morse code, mice. Garbage piled up in kitchens with kittens crawling across linoleum floors. Toaster oven. Cheerios. Cabinets. Cooler.

Tired eyes. Red. Resting, closing, shutting, prying open shut with pliers plying. vision victory violins playing in pink cloud dreams dying to be noticed. Direct me to deep dreams, or not, because a dream is a dream, is not or not, is not, but is. Facts taught in black robes that probe into your back for answers. Don’t say a peep. Finger mouth found ways to fix. Problems only sometimes. Tick-tock. Time takes time. Patience pulls you under heart palpitations to bad places.