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BILLY JONES


Ignited


Fire
in the fingers
fire
in the head
heart & balls
fire
in the typewriter
fire
in the cold
tree buckling roar
of the westerly
fire
in the stuff called water
dripping from the kitchen tap
fire
in losing the best woman
I ever had to another guy
& wishing them luck
fire
in the pulse of the poem
running through whirlpool fingertips
into the keys like
tiny electric rivers
fire
in the way
the sun just broke through
a crack in the clouds
fire
at my sanctuary table
at the local tavern
scrawling a wild letter
not knowing anyone
or wanting to talk
fire
in the black stockings
of the barmaid with
the gold stud in her nose
fire
in the little pocket
of silence in the midst
of all that drunken racket
fire
in the freedom
of the flow
of writing
this there