Just before you're slid, feet-first,
into the furnace, notice the way
the subtly different shades
of orange flame curl weightless
in the coals. See how the mossy
blossoms of fire bud upward
out of black embers like mushrooms.
Notice the symetry of every split
in the wood, tiny windows
blinking on and off, a whole
ecosystem of firy life. Stop
and wonder at the beauty,
the uncanny order of it all.
I'm back to writing a poem every day, whether they stink or not.
Monday, September 12, 2005
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2005
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September
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- Second-hand Smoker
- Cuts (this is a second poem today to make up for y...
- Mirror and Dance
- Cycles at the Laundromat
- Vacant
- Elizabeth
- Teeth
- Simplicity
- Mouse and Me (a "lower standards" poem, I think)
- Consumed
- Not Writing Today
- Light
- Evening, September 15, 2005
- My first drug poem
- Observer
- Stealing Pleasures in Hell
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September
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