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Thursday, May 23, 2013



There is a low wail coming
Up through my skin.  When 
I listen in, head close
To the radio I can feel
The pulse, the full pulse,
The pulse, pulse of the electricity
In its circuits.  I can smell
The ozone.  I can tell
It needs flame.  Even the music,
Even the announcer’s voice,
Lifting and falling, selling stereos
And car tires has the stink
Of flame around it.  I wish
For evening, a room far away,
The arc of a great bird
Across the sky, etched air.
The wail will have none of this.
It becomes louder and shrill.
The dial begins flickering.
It’s mouth full of flame.
It begins to melt.
I quickly pick it up,
Toss it into the air.

The stairs of the angels catch fire.
The air is filled with burning stairs.
There is no way to get to heaven
Any longer.

The fire storm rages down.
It is like dreaming.
It is like moving clouds
Away with one’s hand.
I stand at the top
Of the stair and look down.
Someone is listening to a radio
So intently
I believe
They are an animal.

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