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A Stove is a Stove (No Matter Where You Go)

Andrei Vladimirov

Heat rises.

It always does. And perhaps

a plutocrat won’t understand boiling

Blood until he is on the burner himself.

In which case, I’ll inquire, while the

Follicles of his ass crackle like a wick,

What percentage this is

Of the suffering he’s spurred.

Water boils faster with a lid--

Too, does blood when impotence

Rattles the lips, futility the heart.

the lid always blows when the heat don’t stop.

Elliot’s an old cook at the new restaurant downtown,

And on one occasion remembered this with

A five gallon pot brimming,

Bubbling with the skin

Of a few dozens cut potatoes--

And in that double take, I remember his

face seething almost as the pot.

Spilling water

quenching combustion.

Our voices are the tiny bubbles

In water before it boils, perhaps much smaller

Even, than that. It’s easy to miss one.

Yet, there’s that beautiful moment when they

all become bigger, fuller, faster--sensing

The urgency of what compels them, coalescing in

Air around us. When enough voices, enraged

And flagrant, fill the streets and the riot cops

Can’t stop us, then maybe they will ascend

Like the hymns of wicked cherubs,

Finally loosing the firmament.