Am I too late
to immolate me?
The pyre's stacked
wood and packed crates
by townspeople --
men and women and children.
It is topped by a chair
and sits on the parking lot
at Turk and Taylor,
behind barbed wire-topped
cyclone fencing.
Right inside the yellow lines
on black asphalt:
empty space
soon to be filled
not with cars and Jeeps
but people on foot
Filipino and white and hobo and dyke --
all those I love,
laugh with, and jeer --
peering up at my tear-stained
face as I sit tied
and burn with blue flame
from within.
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