Nostalgia for the Real

I cant remember the last time I saw a real fire
with flames dancing like hula girls,
and thought, These flames are angels.

Or sat in the sand and wept for the loneliness of waves.

Or threw a stone like my death into a river,
and thought, Sink or swim my future is a headless one-eyed bandit.

Or found a wooden nickel on the desert and spent it
on the frivolities that turn a man into a stranger to himself,
an acrobat twisting his limbs through Saturn’s rings,
a raconteur of the history of his own Inquisition.

A man who may not remember a thing
as he stands on the bridge over a burning river,
contemplating a leap into the vortex of stone.


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