The Poetry Contest

Badlands of hope.
Cherry picking in apple orchards.
Sunday in love. Then, Sunday mourning.
Self-inflicted wound.
Nude birth.
Peeling your heart with a Swiss army knife.
The accidental unraveling of spools.
Writing the inside cracks otherwise hidden from sunlight.
One way ticket.
Mother’s constant knocking on wood.
Chanting a forbidden potion.
Eternal optimist at the auction.
Phantom blue things.
Writing the girl.
The cheapest house on the market.
A tongue tasting.
Bullet dreams.
Going up in smoke.
Upward arrow inside the skull.
Writing the solo dance.
The encyclopedia of designed chance.
A muffled bingo call. Missed.
That one time when a white sailboat got loose in Lake Tahoe and everyone rushed to stop its
sinking. All the cellphones that came out to capture its slow descent. And how someone in
Mumbai watched it disappear in real-time.
Harness and bridle of a girl’s soul.
Eloping with self to Vegas.
Antelope Valley’s poppies you wish to win.
Fixing an open bite.
Stretching the girl thin.
Beauty pageant of the witty and sad.
Raising your hand in a room full of yellowjackets.
Singing blind.
A Faustian deal.

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The Burner

It was always in me. This insatiable thirst
to watch things burn. The sudden flame,
coming from nowhere, as if to soothe
the bleak black bird hatching in me, chain-linked
Razor-wired. The sizzling warmth
of the dancing reds and yellows, setting the prisoner free.
In the early days, it was just paper. My homework.
My father’s folders. The violent leaping sparks to match
the charcoal texture of my days. It was all easy enough.
The birthday candles must have inspired me.
I looked for them in the trash can after the party,
taking ownership of them. My heroes.
I lined them up on my nightstand like toy soldiers.
Imaging them aflame hushed the gaping wound
in my head. The backyard burnings didn’t suit me long.
I dreamed of bigger flames. I wanted my fire
to mean something. Not just the camping fire.
First house I burned was our neighbor’s, Mr. Colman.
Little stupid man. The shadow of the flames of his house
and the despair in his face made it all make sense. Tranquility.
I had to wait until college to really expand burning homes.
Until then I simply burnt my classmates’ belongings.
Anything I could find. Books. Diaries. Even clothes.
If a girl didn’t like me back, I’d get a hold of her backpack
and burn it together with my broken bones, out on the fields.
That’s a fair trade. Watching someone desperately search.
Most people don’t care about their stuff anyway.
They can always get new ones. Life is about replaceability.
Sometimes, I bury my hollow muzzled bird, weeping out loud.
The next day, I let it come alive. Finally, I have figured it out;
I love burning people. I haven’t done it yet.
If I weren’t in this inferno, I’d be out there hunting
the right person to set aflame. You get my drift?

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