In the past two years or so, my life has been greatly enriched by corresponding with poet Michael Rhynes, author of Guerillas in the Mist and Other Poems, which I reviewed for The Centrifugal Eye (www.centrifugaleye.com; search archives).
Michael is incarcerated in Auburn Correctional Facility in New York, about 2.5 hours from where I live. We've never met, except through the U.S. Mail. He recently sent me a new poem, asking if I would somehow get it onto the Internet.
With this posting, I'm honoring his request. Michael's body may be imprisoned, but his spirit burns with passion. Thus:
Burn Man, Burn Man, Burn
We all gather without Abraham for self-sacrifice. On Nevada’s
Black Rock Desert. In our beautiful nudity, we lay spread-eagled
where Isaac laid.
We offer up our tender, most sensitive parts to this world
without shame, hatred, inhibitions, regret, or censorship.
We burn our Victoria Secrets bras and Jordan underwear because we
no longer belong in the killing fields of the Middle East.
We burn our Nikes, Jordans and Adidas
because we will no longer run in political races we can’t win.
We will not run for pink elephants, jack asses, or tea totalers who
sip at parties funded by the Mad Hatter.
We burn our credit cards, mortgages, car notes, tax forms,
and the letter of democracy.
We will no long be indentured servants behind a Walled-in
Street in the land of the free.
Burn men, burn women, burn children, in the spirit of democracy.
Burn man, burn man.
Written by Michael Rhynes
October 2, 2010