tchotchke

this fire

this fire

this fire, it

this fire, it used

this fire, it used to

this fire it used to burn inside of me, this

rumbling tumbling trunk-of-trees splitting

spitting ashes and embers, burning

holes through my pages, this fire.

This fire. I miss it, this fire.

Thatfire, rather—

past-tense because its been put out, yeah

this fire, its been put out by me maybe but lately

its so much easier to blame someone else and

if I had a choice it wouldn’t be gone but maybe I do,

THIS FIRE, I want it

wanna feel it singe my stomach again,

like heartburn,

but better—wordburn; things I gotta get out, they’re

all there, more than ever but the means,

the means are all gone, so little time

to do so many other things—the inside of my head

is a poem but whose to say I’m the only one?

This fire, but this fire,

this is all I’ve got, this

fire is all I’ve had, gazing into the

hypnotic blue flame, always

makes me think a little harder, this fire

that ruled me, this

heavy void, clawing at the air for a pen,

FILL IT—ever empty, never satisfied as

this fire, it dies out, please

don’t die out this fire, my

fire give it air

give me air, this fire… all I’ve got

and my burns are healed and

my body is scar-less, never

been so boring, my fire

where is it? I

need to feel complete again and

my notebooks lay abandoned in

my bags and on my floor, staring

at me like a pissed off dog

nudging his tennis ball, sad eyes

I kick it away, fires gone

fires gone and I don’t wanna play

fires gone.