Why The Flame

Like an ant to syrup I respond to this word
“Pure”
In any context
Even the painfully inaccurate
By seeking to savor and store something
From it
Out of it
Drip it Drip it’s Dripping
Slow love if you’re lucky
Are you lucky
That was a question

What about the moth that runs from the flame
That was a question

When you have always known
You are a teacher
And you hate the idea
Which circle of hell will you flat track

That, too, was a question

Like, Have you seen me lately
Or, Does heaven have a landlord
And, How many white doves does it take
to satisfy the devil

Answer as you would if you were naked and
Cold and
Pure

Wrestleair

Jacob was the a.k.a. extra heir
Esau was heir enough but sold room in his lungs for food
(one cannot breath and swallow at the same time)
And as far as we know
He lived happily ever after as a hairy man with many wives
(God bless him)

Angels are often depicted as smooth skinned
Aerodynamic ephemeral creatures
(which is why they refer to each other as “the boys”)
Made of the remaining air from God’s intent
After breathing seeds of life into the foundation of time
(which is why God refers to them as the “sons of exhaustion”)

I wrestled Jacob in the shadow of Esau’s forgiveness
He demanded a blessing which was not mine to give
(the text falls shy of truth: he had me by the balls)
But I delivered it yet so God set me aside in his humor
To be the fallen angel of oxygen margins
(is how he said it, and then smiled)

I am all wind over 30 miles per hour
I am balloons
I am the small gasp at the site of someone you cannot love
I am lost hats
I am under every falling leaf
I am 30% of home runs and touchdown passes
I am the snort when laughter snorts
I am a pause on the radio
I am farts
I am on jet planes
I am friend to the woodwinds and cousin to brass

This is an abridged list, of course

But you know me, the angel of extra air