The poet and the monk
and all
between
when they awaken to this Paleo
inheritance
are stepping away
from a part of their
infancy.
The mother
of my childhood friend
helped a bunch of us feel
the light
when she burned Fred’s
fingers
for playing with
matches.
On Fiji long ago
Tunaiviqalita on a dare
walked on burning coals
siring down his lineage
a lucrative
tourist
attraction.
The poet
treats as metaphor
this roaster of loins, searer
of egos
“care
to close the gap?”
his boozy breath dares
the grinning, gaping
pareidolic
maw.
The monk
saw an ally in this elemental
conceit
of staring down delusions
of coveted
grandeur
nothing grander than love
with Thích Quảng Đức
incinerating himself
as click bait
for a world inured
to
persecution.
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