The dry & steady masculine smell of burning trees
Filling the Sunday morning air
like a grey poison cloud
A gaseous sauce spreading like soaking up a paper towel
My lungs.
Burning hills straight line of fire
With an odor pure & distinct
Remember it
kinda like angry soldiers
Not “out of control”, but more
“without the ability” to control one’s self
Like the first time you burned paper in a basement.
A hazy dream that moves too slowly for anyone to take measurements.
This is the end of the world
or at least something similar to it,
a grey ghost that keeps pushing
it gets closer & closer.
It comes in the screen windows and whispers in your ear,
it says “you could be next…”
but it says it when you are sleeping
so no one is sure
did you ever really hear it?
It tickles the inside of my nose
The city slowly comes alive,
which only means more cars
which means more noise
which means everything is kind of just rolling up into one giant thing.
Within seeing distance
A ripping and a shredding
A not-so-gentle reminder,
Charging forward with no concern or consequence,
these are the early morning Fires
coming to take “what’s yours”,
to teach you
nothing is yours.
These are the orange horny demons with five thousand heads
These are the wild spirits,
And they have something to say to our city,
But they also have something to say personally to YOU.
These are the early morning smoke clouds
Arriving honestly and calmly
coming to silence you
hoping that you’ll be asleep
by the time it’s all over.
