August 12th 2009
We’re hiding in a new place
where no bricks, nor traffic can distract our waves.
No sparks traverse these walls,
only flames on stalks mar the paint.
A web from the ceiling collects our things,
from glory hats to acrobats with thread bobs in between.
On entering the room, there’s a tangy smell,
soon hampered by the dust and smoke,
but brought back up by peels in colors from side to side.
Clay for our stick-ash and a bed on the rug,
everything we need is presented.
It stripped from us the will to buy, the will to walk
and the need for change.
In minutes, we knew that we wanted to add our stain.
We wanted to mark like the flames
and we wanted the untainted rooms
to drink our taint.