This night is kinetic, and "I" has limitless potential.
From the fragrant downtown goddesses that parade the concrete runways,
taunting, solicitation of sexual solace;
The sad mystique of those setting fire to leaves,
smoke drawn to lung, to limbs, to brain
to leave.
Oh that I could be one with nature, and breathe its fire for myself!
That I could transcend this feeble moment and paint my soul on the dingy alleyways of this lonely existence.
Are my innards not soaked in nitroglycerin?
Are we not living conduit?
Is not my tongue dripping with ink?
Are not my bones aching to be broken?
Will I ever thaw a winter's night?
Who will light the match,
lest I spit fire down the throats of thousands?
Lest I spit fire,
I myself will catch,
Painting an entire city block the deep reds of my innards,
the air rings with my song.
