Who’s Fire

When there’s a fire
there’s a claim
Not the witness
Not the wise
But the glory
But the name
All must be one
All must be none

The clown on the Chair
Heard the Fire
The Clown said
That must be mine
The Clown’s Dog
Barked and waved
Pissed a few ink
On history’s name

When there’s a fire
There must be a victim
And there must be death
For which the clown can save
Not save the death, but sold the tears
For the dog’s piss named history

When the clown cry
The dog cry
The victim cry
The Clown smile
As the purpose is gained
And the name is stained

So who’s fire is it
And who set the fire
That is up to the dogs to name
But for the clown is forever stained
Bit by bit
Name by name

If one day, the real fire is found
If one day, the real victim is found
It is for the dog’s piss to wrinkle the name
It is for the clown
To save the day again.

The jester-king sat enthroned in scarlet silk,
face painted white, lips a crimson slash.
When the first ember kissed the thatch roofs of the south,
he did not call the watchers on the wall.
He called the scribes.

“Write,” he commanded, bells jingling on his crown,
“that the fire began the very hour I noticed it.
Write that I alone foresaw the flame.
Write that every bucket, every tear, every scorched child
is a pearl strung on the necklace of my mercy.”

The royal hound—a sleek creature with medals on its collar—
lifted its leg against the parchment of history
and pissed a golden arc that spelled:
Great Victory Against the Evil Fire

The people coughed in the smoke.
Some died clutching photographs, some clutching empty rice bowls.
The jester-king stepped over the bodies
to a balcony draped in red banners,
and wept,
he wept,
wept with a smile,
one practiced tear rolling through the white greasepaint
like a pearl down a corpse’s cheek.

The hound barked.
The audience barked.
The tear was collected in a crystal vial
and sold to the people as elixir of eternal loyalty.

Years later, when the ashes had cooled
and children played among the unmarked graves,
a small voice asked:
“Who lit the fire?”

The hound growled, baring fangs.
The jester-king merely adjusted his crown of bells
and smiled the same crimson slash.

The fire, you see,
had always belonged to him.
The dead were only kindling
for the endless coronation of his name.