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.
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.
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.
“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
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.
