Bonfire Soul

Bonfire Soul

A Manic-depressive South Florida slam-danced with our anxious souls. Nocturnal soles left earth like jilted lovers, only to return in the forgiving cuddly mornings. We ate Clematis Street wrapped in stale midnight hotdog buns. There were drum circles pulsing through my hot veins fueling the punk rock smirk on my reggae mouth. Suddenly, the cultural boundaries at either side of my sexy adolescent path became arms waiting to embrace whatever sliver of me drifted into their incalculable countenance. John was always on the left waving wolf tattoos like battle flags. He would shout made-up words like scripture: “dangler-dangler digiroptus!” and “shmagburner cartwright cattle-baron teets!” And people would sing along to his beautiful nonsense with gleaming child-eyes and half-mast whiskey-mouths that must have been stolen from mischievous cherubs. Geoff was always on the right with a bellyful of multicolored pills and a pit bull head full of pulsating sunshine. He would jump four feet straight up into the air, make superhuman flip-kicks and land in the same brazen swagger he had before he left the asphalt. His followers would cheer and attempt to recreate these magical movements, but, usually, they’d land like yard-darts with their swirly heads drilling into the sidewalk. I was always in the middle. I made noises like a wounded jungle creature, and, of course, the whole city sang along. It was glorious for a few nectar-trickled flickers in the eye of naked Time. We all breathed and swayed in perfect unity like forest of thin pines haphazardly planted in the middle of a busy highway. Cars shined by at top speeds with their horns honking happy rebellion against whatever grizzly serpent dared to raise its ugly political head. Skyscrapers clapped their hands and whooped the urban cash-and-carry gospel of mortality. We were there. We were whole. We were one. That sort seed planted in the soul never stops bearing fruit as days and years peel from the crying onion planet that rolls on withered shoulders. We are the holders of a lovely Then that will never match the wrinkled plane-Jane Now. Yet, somehow, it all becomes a fluid amalgam of smiles and dances and youth and wisdom orbiting an eternal bonfire soul. Driftwood makes green flames. Green flames can never be extinguished.  

Reviews

[Kerry O'Connor]

Since this is not to be for my challenge, I shall respond by saying: It is brilliant! It sums up everything I admire about the fraternal bond, the devilry and the unsung glory of boys. It's why I have loved them so much my whole life and stood beside them in the hopes my presence alone can prevent them from the self-destruct, which is itself so seductive...

This line sums up the secret ingredient of their charm: We are the holders of a lovely Then that will never match the wrinkled plane-Jane Now

[Kenneth The Poet]

Disturbing, but maniacally awesome. I should just the freedom flow from the tip of my pen sometimes.