Burning Man


The man, towering thirty feet over the scurrying mortals below, surveys Baker Beach. Tumultuous waves pound the shoreline, he stands tall, defiant in the face of a coming storm; arrogant in the belief that he is untouchable.

Summer solstice approaches and the gaiety of the day has become raucous, as the evening revelers amble by his throne.


His dominion over all, is the delusion of a scarecrow mind, when the calloused hand becomes a fist, his authority will become quarry.


Still The Man considers himself a king amongst the peasants who bore him. As a bird creates a home, one straw at a time, laboriously placed for strength; he too has been crafted for a purpose. Adorned with shiny things, the remnants of fallen gods scattered like trophies about his torso and limbs. He is a sight surely, a work of art born of others toil. But mostly he is a beacon for all that is wrong with the world and his moment of illumination has arrived.


“It’s time,

It’s time.


Light him up!”


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