What Do You Hear Now, Walt Whitman? (16)

16

And the fire burns,
the steering wheel turns and the brisk air churns,
watch dance about,
the demons dangle through trip top trepidations
and I squeal all the while.
Never near finagling and fondling
young girls unbutton and reboot,
temptation is a personal computer -
shelling and reshelling,
darker and faster, darker and wavering,
relinquish - the night air begs.

I burrow my way through the burning wreck
of books, anthologies, and queer volumes,
volumes scoffing and snaring,
mocking and undressing through the brilliant shrill of flames,
flaring and wavering, dancing tamelessly across the skyline.
I swim curiously,
agape and ancient, fire never gives up,
fire never fails to amaze and bewilder;
even the blazing towers of words on paper -
this thing we call literature with our noses touching the sky -
just like a small candle this blazing tower of books burns at the soul -
nothing quite as astonishing,
nothing quite as brilliant,
nothing quite as bright and vacant,
nothing quite as thrilling,
nothing quite comparable -
nothing, nothing fills my soul
and my empty body falters and falls -
and I lay barren and overwrought,
lay ablaze amongst books towering overhead,
books laying, stacked quaintly and neatly,
stacked perfectly for the blaze that overtakes and enchants the soul of every watcher.
Every watcher - brave and weary and wrong -
every watcher unsure,
every watcher alone,
every watcher one more body to count as the population dwindles back to zero.

We hold hands and rejoice in emptiness,
we leak, but we hang on -
hang on, somehow gently resisting Mother Earth's cruel spin.