Her kitchen was haunted like an invisible disease
and at some point she didn't see her favorite child in me
I would look up above the firewood wicker vessel
Such a distance such a well contained emptiness
At her picture of the boy blowing flames out of his mouth
Into the unknown maybe a gram of purpose in neutral eyes
Into the space of void a certain compact darkness fries
In the oven underneath that place people call Hell
For all the quirks and ghosts it was flames of doom
unanchored spirits that tickled into late afternoon
Frosting the wee hours with cold extinguished loss
Her smile still warmed me as foreign as it was
Though it should have been easy to trust
For she was my blood she my ewig artist
Was she to paint me for my ghastliness
My lack of filter, my curmudgeonliness
Whether the curse was seen on me
The patch of skin destined for ink or a scar
Her finger might point out from the afterlife
back to that painting she did...
Of a boy blowing fire out of the void
Dishelved hair outlandish tunic
Sequestered from this world
by unmentionable entities
Stuck in some dimension time has stopped
A meal of gasoline burning the years outside the void
pure destruction in aroma and strange righteousness
The eternal gymnastics of it
Heart of darkness, soul misled
The boy spits fire in a space so dead
when the hearth has cooled and ash has sweetened
The boy continues to burn away generational demons
