I’ve always been
an open flame
at an oil rig
the stick that
pokes the untamed
unbound hungry beast

the real estate
of my gray matter
is exclusive
but not expensive—
we’re looking for
a specific buyer
and we’re not in
a hurry to sell
to the highest
bidder or the
most desperate
or needy

it’s not the
best land
I’ll have
you know,
I cherish my
customers and
always wish to
remain honest
with them, if
nothing else

the dirt is haunted;
there are ghosts—
you can see
their faces and
smell their skin,
you can hear
their whispers—
just like the
first time
every time
and they
just
won’t
go

the ground is dissonant;
there are earthquakes—
unmarked areas where
the land groans and
parts, opening up—
split skeletal
fragments, wisping
muscles from bones,
where people
and places
potential
it all
falls
right
in

the weather is volatile;
there are tornados and hurricanes—
swirling and smashing
crashing and bleating—
lightning and thunder
rolling through often
roaming at will
knocking out power lines
and knocking down homes
without a single
storm warning or
any warning
at all

the air is hazardous;
there is radioactivity
and toxic sludge lurking
in most nooks and crannies
cracks and crevices
eroding the economy
and causing cancer
making it hard
to breathe at
times, but
you adapt

the winter is grating;
there are tundras—
freezing, frozen
regions where frost
rules and there
is no exception—
all foams up to fade,
to froth, to be sifted
off with a butter knife
or shaved off with
a razor blade,
all white and
gray and
gone…

and there are fires—
oh yes, there are wild, wild
fires, engulfing everything—
everything

leaving nothing but ash
floating daintily in
the breeze, and
sterile, fertile
soil, for a new
seed to drink
and grow.