Blank Pain Poem by ron androla

in a tree-circled field
edged with wolves, walnut
trees, webs, nets of bugs,

sit down in the grasses.
fold open the process of
thought by biology.

you have cigarettes?
smoke them.
either way continue

holding yr
hands inside
the fire,

hot-dog char
burn of
fingers;

no screaming.
no absolute denial,
one certainty.

life is long alone
in the field,
thus our ritual,

what's maintained
for the sake of
time in a head,

to sear
life
alive.

& the world
spills down
the tulip of space/time fabric.

we
stretch
forever.

this is
how to
die.