CINNAMON STICKS

Feel the wonderful new geometry of the sharks
And watch 
as gaping jaws become mathematicians,
and the lifeboats become the variables
in an ocean equation.

Each is a floating “x” 
Three in a row and I win,
they say.

Everything else becomes cinnamon sticks.

I am sinking
and there is a blue power button, 
but it is out of reach.
It drips blue light
as it slowly melts away
and now I am fully embraced.

Don’t worry, this is a good thing;
this is the glory of cinnamon sticks.

And now my body is a sailboat.
Ribs form the base,
with my spine as the mast,
And my fingertips become sails
but with wind so slow they have nothing to latch onto,
so they twist and unravel cinnamon sticks.

And purple ocean swallows orange moon;
no light escapes her jaws,
and now no-light becomes a rainstorm
and tranquillity becomes a maelstrom;
as outer space approaches,
Every sun is now cinnamon sticks.

Their fire drenches 
and it reaches my bones like whale song.

I am turned like tea leaves,
as they rocket me, spiraling, upward.

Infinity is a gaping stomach,
but devouring cinnamon sticks is an eternity 
like falling with eyes tight shut 
As veins imbibed with their flickering light 
dance

And each whispered maranatha
is the turning of cinnamon sticks,
and their clicking together
is a celebration of life and life again

The benevolence of cinnamon sticks
is that I may wish to graft this bark into my skin,
be ground into obscurity,
sprinkled among starfish,
and adopted by the grand tide.

The first melody is cinnamon sticks
The last harmony is cinnamon sticks