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Little Wing

playing the victim, yet

erect in righteousness and purity:

this is me. 

I am not broken, I need not be sewn

to shy from kindness I have been known

I envy the tree

as it’s apathetic and free. 

Standing through harsh conditions

breezy days

heartless human ways;

standing its ground. 

why am I not this way?

fickle and fierce

begrudging 

angry

knowing good loving

loving good forgetting

and if my existence vanished?

ending in a moment, 

no one would famish. 

not a soul would know

or feel the slightest loss. 

maybe relief, 

yet never grief. 

I am dark 

my heart is black

my head is dead

my conscience wack

my body lead.

the drive to do right

masks inability to live

inconsistency to love

what do I give? 

not a damn thing. 

No, I am not one on which you will find wings. 

who are you?

eating, eating, eating:

preparing. 

eating, eating, eating.

a web of lies? a web to hide

away in for a bit of life

the sun will set

the sun will rise

upon unconscious unborn 

lovely wings that fly.

seemingly infinite bits of time pass by

as the sleeping worm transforms

and the driven state 

of uniform wake 

will cease;

yet, her design was never forlorn.

once the ice melts

and the flowers bud

a new winged creature

has begun

looking upon the fruits of life

she hesitates, not

fast is her flight

odessa, texas. hip-hip-hooray.

White Dove

metamorphosis is real.

I once was a poor, oily sea otter

void the dream of bathe or change

reveling in the darkness of my day

doomed to go on that hopeless way

one charmingly crisp, clear aquamarine morn

my small otter eye got curious.

it wandered upwards as my head tilted back;

the vision yet gazed showed stunning

and I slowly overcame with cunning

'twas Mighty Helios, infamous golden charioteer

directing his steeds of fire and life

my small otter eyes started to tear;

every ounce of emotion downward rolled

every drop to the ocean: joy overflowed.

as my otter eye closed, 

fur turned to feather

oil turned to wind

glistening white, still wet from the water

oxygen pumping, no tragedy could bother

once hot blooded, now hollow boned

strong yet fragile

compassionate and flying

through the skies; statuesque, graceful

my bird brain computes as only grateful

My Titan, My Sun

of all light do you comand

enlightening my free, feathery wing

listening, honest-to-god as I sing

every break of day without fail

once again at night, assuring remembrance

your beautiful, luminous face

shall infinite be my steady route home.

I, steadfast, shall never again roam

house of the rising sun,

can you feel my glow?

rays unexplained shoot from my marrow

this is you, as we are us. 

inseparable, in love.

calantheandthenightingale:


“Does it hurt?” asked the Rabbit.
“Sometimes,” said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful.  “When you are Real you don’t mind being hurt.”
“Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,” he asked, “or bit by bit?”
“It doesn’t happen all at once,” said the Skin Horse.  “You become.  It takes a long time.  That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept.  Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby.  But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”

— from The Velveteen Rabbit (or How Toys Become Real) by Margery Williams, 1922

calantheandthenightingale:

“Does it hurt?” asked the Rabbit.

“Sometimes,” said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful.  “When you are Real you don’t mind being hurt.”

“Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,” he asked, “or bit by bit?”

“It doesn’t happen all at once,” said the Skin Horse.  “You become.  It takes a long time.  That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept.  Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby.  But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”

— from The Velveteen Rabbit (or How Toys Become Real) by Margery Williams, 1922

Snake Charmer

finger all those holes

from your musical joy 

stick, changing volume

with the power in your

breath, out from thy chest;

though perfunctory pitch,

a sweet savory bliss

emanates from this lovely

simple masterful stick.

my body dances with delight,

half circles and bobs

my head throbs with 

passion for the melody,

repetitious implosion

from harmonic explosions

controlled by your fingers.

chorus cooing “up, girl”

I rise to occassion

drunk on sublimation;

yet, as soon down low

control my movement 

with your flow.

don’t dare replace my lid

keep the music playing

slowly, yet

as i’m about to weep

Epicurean feats

unraveling from my rattles…

I am released

winding unto myself,

my basket of wealth;

yet, the music not removed

though your charm has proved:

I am innocent, you are ruthless.

we are rhythmic to our eternal 

ritual never to be known fruitless

I meet you. I remember you. Who are you? You’re destroying me. You’re good for me. How could I know this city was tailor-made for love? How could I know you fit my body like a glove? I like you. How unlikely. I like you. How slow all of a sudden. How sweet. You cannot know. You’re destroying me. You’re good for me. You’re destroying me. You’re good for me. I have time. Please, devour me. Deform me to the point of ugliness.