Burning Books with Jack

When he threw Amor Fati
into flames, friends and poets gasped.

White book! Heads shook.

I ran to find mine bubble wrapped
in a briefcase, amateur sky
with all the colors in it.

ah jumped in after Jack like a sigh,
and Danny’s script, wanting nothing more
than for words to say nothing,

burn, be nothing with his.
Glowing gold pages turned with the stick

of an acolyte. Spent light!

Unreadable ash
made of us and especially
Jack gibbering joy-scat

to the earless moon, hands
grasping at the halo like a drowning man,
fingers coming up empty and fool.

2017

3 Responses to “Burning Books with Jack”

  1. eduardo says:

    “…wanting nothing more/than for words to say nothing,…” Love this line. I also love, “…Jack gibbering joy-scat//to the earless moon,…”; and also, “grasping at the halo like a drowning man,/fingers coming up empty and fool.”

    I have a copy of Amor Fati, but (The horror! The horror!) I don’t have a copy of, ah. I need to order a copy, and get this corrected, pronto.

    Anyhoo, back to the poem. This seems, to me, a transcript of a dream. The imagery seems ju-u-u-u-u-u-ust outta reach, out of being able to touch it and verify its validity.

    • wordweed says:

      Eduardo…I will tell you sometime about the evening that inspired the poem. It felt like a dream, but happened much like I describe. Jack was in rare holyfool form that night.

      Please don’t order a copy of ah. Next time I’m in Salida, I have one for you. :)

      • eduardo says:

        So, next time you’re in Salida, we’ll meet at Benson’s again, where you can tell me of this magickal Holy-Mueller-Fool evening.
        And I’ll try my hardest not to drool over, and thereby ruin, my copy of ah, right after you’ve gifted it to me.

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