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The eagle brushstroked black talons to beak broke red blue in the white sky tiny scarlet prey fought and died in once soft grasp matron touch a child freely loved plumped fed and feathered in aerie tall safe high from screech and whoop the drop to the loops of barbed wire below
Put two copper artifacts next to each other, and in time, they will turn green from the attraction. Bronze Disease is what the conservators call it. For them, corrosion is the enemy. But that is not true, as poets and most others know: Corrosion is life, Rust is love.
Never summon the evil whales forth lest they hunger for a salt’s murder or seek to ravage their ship. They cry out havoc, scream tempest to the ocean and sky so the illhveli hear not their name. Their harpooned blubber boils neither to heaven nor hell but vanishes only inside the soul. …
I walk from there to there to paint myself into black pixels, my shadow following obediently part of the hobbled sketch. I draw myself as a wobbly line, ill aligned and always misplaced near the horizon Above are scrawled illegible words written in a shaky handwriting, below exists the gurgle of my bowels…
I search Google Sky and there is a night picture. Yellow dots top and bottom in fluttering butterfly waves: too many to count, small red and white dots: 20 per square inch, medium red and blue orbs: 10 per quadrant, red orbs with devil’s tail: 10 falling down red, purple, blue orbs with halos:…
Everything louder than the earth spinning under you will make you doubt you are alive.
A daughter dies, and she is found, in the cerulean movements of birds. Not a hawk. Mother Sky says those are for boy’s souls. The father sees mockingbirds building a nest of pine twigs in the corner frieze of the portico and imagines a flash of her smile in there frequent swoops to his…
The not not bird listens to its not not song in the not not tree near my not not door. And in its song it hears something not not grand compared to all the other not not birds in all the other not not lands. The not not bird doesn’t know all…
I. All through elementary school blonde beautiful lip reading teachers would try to correct my “th”s by snaking their tongues between their teeth and holding it there, ripe cherries tempting me to bite into them. This was the one thing my withdrawn self throbbing with the first thrusts of male enthusiasm couldn’t stop thinking…
