This is How We Write About Notre Dame In Current Year – a Poem in 15 Parts, 14 of which were lost in the fire

This is the people’s brush….that

Jagged maw of rose glass.
I beat my heart with the song of the vespers…

Walking, between lemon chip flames.

I do not xterior the lie, rather I enter the body
on fire

Hell, I am on fire….

Jagged knuckle lines become xylophone keys, and I play….
I am on fire.

This is not the love, the beat, the beast, the let go the let go the let go.

This is the people’s brush…..this

Across the charred stones, inside, inside,
The cheap bastards filled holes with musty wood dusted with stone-shades.

I am on fire.
This is the people’s brush.
We are the world.  The world is a night sky heavy with soaked linens draped
across sagging scaffolds of out-of-tune pianos….

The mother of the beat…the fire…the fire belongs to the body but

The body is burning…and it was not the body.
It was burning.
This is not the love feast.  We all die in the beat.
The beat is on fire.

I am on fire.
I am a scene.  I burn. I bleed.
The open mouth is filled with spiders that spin in limestone.
I am inside and I am wet with flames.
The cathedral is the social construct of kings.
and queens.

The death of the thousand year old body has been greatly exaggerated.
The people’s brush strokes on, through the night sky

Pregnant with dangling baubles of candied black miters floating into

The pregnant dawn, heavy with canvas, light in stone.