Grounded.

My head swims wide, prefluish, flushed with blood.
My ears in turbulence are cooked and red.
The man in Flame behind me droning business,
On the air,
His cellphone glowing morbid absinthe green,
Sawing the ether, chews his words like wood.
The story of his life is loud and full of incident
With prizes shined and bronzed,
Each in its own case and on its own shelf,
Curated, catalogued and counted.

And I?
Willing victim by his side,
Saint Lawrence inclined on his gridiron.
Turn me, slave, this side is overdone.
What does it net one, thinking in a rage of silence,
With less beauty, and no benediction
From any quarter, but the pulse of one's aorta
Hammering on,
A seraphim at heart and yet a fool at soul.

I run across the peaks of soft clouds
And meet and greet my Maker, arms aloft.

11.2001, 1.2008