Ronwe

Call him Ben but don't call
him late to the
campfire: flame crated
& carried from one tent to
another, thumb bent
just enough to dig deeper
in search of yellowed
old geezers lost &
wandering amid the panty
raids of tweens & their
meathead counselors.
What he finds, he eats,
salty but not ashamed
to be hunched from
the weight of rhetoric;
a silver tongue in a
gnarly maw, gobbles
words, souls, execrated
offal for an epicure
of wounds; write a letter
to Ronwe in which
the speaker purports
to be the one true President
of a pustulant cabal
of motivational speakers;
unlock the secrets
of your hidden flame
only until he comes
for your flaccid soul--
picking winners
& losers alike; the bell
of hell is a curve, tolls
for me, for my kin, for all
the messes made
in the vernal bed.