Matches Are Not Toys

Like a rare geyser
these explosions of hyper-electric
creative flash forest fire
only ravage my
usually dormant
mind-eye-time
machine
when they damn well want to,
and this one has been
drinking and driving me
all over the fuck
all day
and now deep into the night.
At this point I feel that
creativity itself
is abusing me
and setting its own fires
underneath me
to keep me in constant transition
between anticipated
hallucinatory
rest-stops;
why else
would I be giving
poor Smoky the Bear
the finger
and running through
these dry
dry hills
with my brain on fire?