Burning Abortive Poems

Born to order, impromptu flame,

muttering revolt against

bulwarks of brick and screen;

bodiless polemic, punk,

poormouth, all aspiring tongue

and no abiding belly;

subjugated, starved consumer,

you will take what you are fed.

Here, spirit away in essence

to the indifferent heaven all

that isn't destined ash

in these unlucky efforts;

add to the reeling air my own

hesitant dab of oh, so

carefully distilled pollution.

Now I might say, Forgive me

for the mildly obscene

narrow whiff of sacrifice-

once these words seemed to me

to carry a cleaner smell . .. But who

might I be talking to?

No late oblation then,

not to earth or sea

or overburdened sky; but

a purge pure and simple

for my benefit and that

of the hungering element.

Fire, already past your peak,

trembling to extinction on

a heap of black confetti

you do your feeding credit due,

brief light and little heat.

Feaster never fasting,

you are what you eat.

And I, I am not

what I write. Not yet.