Sunday, February 3, 2013


There once was fire.                                                                                       
                                                                                                                        Witnessed no flame.
Only feel the leftover warmth,
Afterheat afterthought.
You’re charred.
                        An open, bubbling, smoking wound from which molten lava spews and black dust rises.

Don’t blame me for the fire.
Blame me                                                                                            for the sting of my medication.
Call me your Little Neo.
Neosporin Neoclassical Acid Jazz Musician.
There was a fire. Past
tense, understood.
There isn’t anymore.
Won’t be.
What we have is not
fire worthy.
I’m not
fire worthy.
I’ll just take that festering wound and mold it into a tiny, unforgettable, pink blemish you have to know the exact location in order to begin the search for.