I like a slow burn.
Like the way butter melts
on day-old pancakes
cluttered in the sink.
Too much batter,
fried and flipped,
pages ripped,
buried in cliffs,
landfilled up
with maple syrup
and lining the bellies
of the home-grown
beasts at some IHOP
in downtown Chicago,
circa the late 1800s.
Hurling up words
as swords
for anarchy,
for revolution.
Such socialists fork down thoughts
blistering in ought, ought, ought to,
can do–
won't follow through.
I like a slow burn.
Like the evolution of America,
like the re-evolution of Earth
It should taste like dirt.
She feels her ink wells drying up,
aquaphor's collecting dust
from canyons miles away.
Make another grand one, I say.
Let her tooth decay.
I like a slow burn.
A churn.
What makes liquid freeze
is not motion,
is not decision,
it's allowing nature to do as she please.
I think we ought to let this burn slow.
Thistles rise from the root rot,
pluck a cherry and put it on top.
Let whip cream fold under
like every pretty lady
with her hands in her lap.
Let it lap.
Let it spin.
Let the ease of time win.