The Hot Place
Telekinetic Synthesis

Reckless and abundant
streaming and gothic.
Cold and pale and all the
fire of a charcoal festival.


Slippery as reptile
and dry as sand.
Catch the meaning of
a fence in the dark.


Candle aching waxy fingertip
velvet crushed in the kitchen.
Feeling like a spoon
on a backlot of pyrometric cones.


Lick in hot sweat
of glass windowpanes
on a shower door

not a curtain.


Flickering wings of pale green
and fast tongue.
Sharp barbs of cold and hot
are flexing their hold over me.


Crowned glory of repeated smell

And even now I could recall you
With my eyes turned upwards in their sockets.


Wrapped legged backspacing
punctuating the traces of slip
on the skin of the night.


I see your dripping sweet stick of honey
that is locked in the jar
just beside the vinegar.

Flecks of gold and grey and silver
between the knots and swirls of fur.


Flames are only hot if you believe they are.

-Sept 12, 2002