Summer calling in August, for the bird named after Saints.
There is a befitting proposition for them both, the season and the bird. She is offered to fall in love for a day, for less than a day, and in so many words, she does.

Two migratory birds dove into hopes and dusted dreams,
Picked the salt form old wounds, binding and mending, singing loss,
Crafting off of creational dust, making new things.

The their giving and giving, given into spent, like pendulums swing. Nature has tricks up her sleeve, and her hopes and promises are not the hopes of promises we keep.

Flying, looking for something over the water.
Wanting under depths of wanting, under depths of imaginations.
The two got stuck deep in the chemical dreaming of songs that played pretend.
The heat lost in the sun, and the season dies in a shell of milky
Indifference.

Birds swoop for signs in the air, flying and hoping that something would land in their narrow mouths so that they may go home and go to sleep.
They glide on. Hoping for ends to their broken songs, dipping and diving farther and farther away, with the batting of imagined wings behind their backs.

“Yes,” is the sound I make
At this crossroads, barren,
And cold.
A clean-cut cringe, hoarse
Noise of boisterous old men
Sitting, playing.
Slapping hands, applause
Of slight defeat to one man,
Atop the tower of cards.
The power lines watch him
From above. Critters of the sky,
Perch with worms and bugs,
Even babies in their bellies.
Harboring the coming
Change.
My bare ****** catches
The attention of watchers,
Voyeurs, timid learners,
Who all like the examples
But seldom skid any stones
Themselves.
I’ve put down the kin,
I’ve put down the knife,
I’ve put down the selfish night
Owl, eyes teeming now,
With respect,
Dilated, humbly begetting,
Stealing with sight.

I wanted to set markers in the future,
So that, when I came to
Points of no return, I was able
To show myself, what I could not tell.
Along the guard rail of my life,
I tied ribbons. Over the Cliffside
They would blow, reaching out for me,
Touching, and tasting the air,
As the sky, oblivious of my treks,
Continued her smile.
Down the road, I found one,
A ribbon tied in red.
Not put there by myself,
I wondered where they were,
Those others, tying knots of my life
For me.
With my eyes closed, I created night.
Through the space between my eyes,
I caught their smiles, and toys,
Their tricks and their attempts
At being coy.
Pretty soon, I opened my eyes to a whirl
Of dance, swooping and looping
With partners I hadn’t seen before.
Kisses and smiles exchanged with friends.
I forgot the Cliffside, and the ties
That I tried to make.

On the long continuous bench in Audobon park, New Orleans, I sat watching the Siren statue. Her hand high with proud strength of her metallic near-immortality. Her cherub children sitting on bronze turtles, holding separate items of ritual in their hands, perhaps a conch, perhaps a lute. As the Siren stood on her globe, a murky green orb of a thing, there were lovers and birds, children and historians with photographic memories in their voguishly composed hands, crouching, cropping, and framing images as infinite as the bronze statues.
I wondered.
If our memories were as sound as granite, and our hearts as pure as the water that froths at a Siren’s feet, would we enjoy and enjoin our attempts, our passions, to act as our own scaffolding to our existence? Would we appreciate the small things, pleasures of love, photographs and amazement that only those bound to and cursed by time could possibly appreciate? Have you actually seen the faces of these bronze castings, once earthly golden in hue, but now terrorized with their own emblems of decay in sheen of turquoise tarnish? Those smiles of the Siren on her globe, her frolicking cherub chums with eternal infantile fists and oceanic paraphernalia, are not the smiles we should ever want to understand.
There was a breeze.
Somewhere in the leaves of an old photo album, across the globe beneath the Siren’s feet, sits an island I call home. Amongst them, the photos of the young boy who always questioned and liked answers all the same now was by and beside himself. His smile eternally saved for the memories of souls yet to come, and no less by the loving eyes of a mother, with voguishly composed hands.

The faintly reminder
I spew in disgust, that we
All humans, do smell, have non-
Descriptive individual
Odors, shapes and sizes.
The repetition on formless copies
Upsets me, songs in pop verse
Sing about the neighborhood's
Children, and their inability to out run
A gun.
Smells of my own liquored breath
Remind me still how un-wanting
*** can be.

In the sour drips of yellow
And daffodils,
Not unlike a lemon,
****-ish in texture,
The people only
Say hello, out of disarming
Fear.

Tuesday, off-day of this world.
Pale faces ignore the sideways
Skewered poles of the symphony
That we so attentively abhor.

These hands are not weapons,
They are tools. My world,
And the one I share it with is handled
Through them.
Because of them, I can be a part
Of you.

I like to make indistinguishable shapes-shapes with tissue paper that lies around.
I like what my thorax makes, those unintelligible sounds.
Starting in or below my abdomen.
I hope death finds me
With this silly note in my hand.
I hope death understands,
It's fun to not be all that might-yee. To be a layman,
To fully and humorously
Understand just what it is
To have wiggle room.
In the eyes of god I want to be Slime.
In the eye of dog,
I am sublime.

Old mister Kerouac singes in the medium
Of prayers so loud so open as the surf itself
Howling and beckoning with a quiet elation
A simple pride of being content with enough
Tho he did have a sin or two in him
And his defense is passed with austerity
No one should be ****** for being one who wants
No soul mind or single breathe is tainted
By minds other than their own
His gift gives still today in the old pages
Of faded ink and primordial vocation
He sings to children of this haunted hollow
World of dreamers and sad quitters and simple fools
How easily is he not heard
How simply good gems return to the soil
Finding their resting place calmly in the hum
Of undeveloped thoughts