ode to the steady crackle-pop beat of a hot stovetop

Richie

Mama would declare: 
some people could be told 
— “the stove is hot,” 
and, for them, it not take much not to touch
certainty, then, led her to the conclusion that 
i was not of that variety, definitively. 

tapping along to smoky crooning pitter-patter oven-made rhapsodies, it is all i can muster not to inquire of this fire, consenting instead to a constant curious burn tiptoeing its own way                                     up 
                                             across my spine, ^ my mind, igniting 
a buzzing thrumming hum into my quotidian. 
            each a spark but a-skitters haphazard-like, tickling 
my membranes, my 
                                  most
                                                deeply personal planes, 
                         sending so many inquisitive waves through my being. 

why does it seem to me: 
the more i dream of what i dream to be 
smoky half-familiar silhouettes of excellence elude 
me, 
burning, crisping quickly 
into dusty, unreachable smithereens;— 

and Yet, 
Again: i’m pressing 
already-charred palms into unbearable stovetop heat: 
dead cat! 


Richie, a Haitian-American creative drawn to sound and emotion, seeks to spread paint across canvas in his own special way.