Thursday, June 21, 2012



how do you give back the gift of your reinvention? when the invention was somebody elses intentions. 'no thanks.. (it comes, frail as bird bones...) no thanks...' (hollow unfulfilled shells, crumpling like a tinfoil cloud aborting foreign yolk...)

I found a crow who had fallen dead beside the road. wings still spread like a compass sure of its way.
it was laying over the gutter grate and the way the water moved around
the current of its black without sound, was a sign.
symbolic of what startles us out of that hazy sleep, of what we have not begun to touch on.
but somehow carry it in the backs of our minds,
without a discernable form.

what is worse than crow death?
how rare and unjust...

to have in your hands, that drenched sour air
in that flight of death.

drained of colour; the vacancy of black marble eyes, lifelessly looking squarely into life.
just one last swell of wakeful breath...

I have a murder in my breast.
I have a murder waiting to soar
through this soreness.

 let me plummet,
let me dagger into earthbound air until I burst blood red
as a thousand, onto that field of jet black flowers.

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