Indian Style

The fire started around sunset, I know not how. I walked along in the cooling night air and shrank down in my soft clothing until I wasn’t even there. Something was wrong, the sun was odd and dim. I did not realize that our house was burning until it was dark, the flames were my soft hair brushing my neck and face, the smoke was my face wailing pain into the murdered moon. I reach the doorstep as dead boy came flying out pushing me in the other direction. I fell into the grass. Dead boy said, we must be born to lose. I said, certainly I am. Dead boy said, it’s peaking now. I said, if it’s peaking tell me this, are you friend or foe? Dead boy said, only friend. The fire burned until sunrise, a couple of dreams lay under the ashes, but the garden saved the rest.

Tonight we stayed with an acquainted neighbor and sat on his porch all night. Dead boy and I don’t get along with him because he is male and we are female, summer spirit, ecstacy leaders. Anyway he left me and dead boy sitting while he slept in his bed. I could smell the ashes of my house still burning as I watched every car that passed by the house hoping that one would take me home. Dead boy stared at an electrical outlet dreaming of the content word that relates. All that we possess now is the clothes that we wear, I, more than dead boy, have my beret, my poet’s shirt and my jeans, dead boy has only his courdoroy pants and is shirtlessly cold. Dead boy said, let me wear your beret, it will make me feel to discuss better. I let him and when he put it on a tear rolled down his cheek. Then, as magic as a pair of creation lovers we are, a warm breeze sprung up and evaporated the tear. We closed our eyes at the same time and breathed in the moisture. I said, it smells like a dead flower. Dead boy said, yes, when I wear your beret I feel the culture changing, I feel an artist without a home, not a pot to piss in, about to burst and blossom like the head of the mushroom, the original penis of thought with life and death at it’s shriveled tip, swallow as the writer his own words into the inken fallice, flowers, flowers for the generation of poor, poor poets, elated, elated to be thus living the life. I said, I know just what you mean dead boy, really I’m ok, I’m ok, write something in my beret. He caught a cinder on the breeze and I watched over his shoulder as he wrote in my beret, home.