May I borrow your wing on the wind; I’d like a different perspective, a little yesterday, because the selection I have is too personal. Earth-bound and clumsy, freedom is feathered black against cotton and clairvoyance. To rat-a-tat messages with a Morse code beak along walls and windows maybe even a chamber door just to send paranoid delusions swarming into skies filled with blue and bruise and sleek glossy plumes beating the breeze with death or the life of your choosing.
I long for that and all that comes tapping in sugary sprinkles lined with silver, turn eyes overhead at the forecast; no luck, no rain, no superfluous visions from above and still, I’m sprawling blind—nested too close to be rusty at eating seeds or worms (whichever is easier to swallow) any suggestion as to the preparation is welcome. Are you still there, my fire,
still bleating under floorboards and making me sweat? Confess all, that I have murdered a bird, swept under rug way too many lint ***** to justify or whatever the crime. May it haunt me in pencil shavings or you in hand cramps— both get curled up in the end on the last page: you, me and all that ****** squawking.
Can we just start over again, again, again because I’m just not getting it right. It looks like French curves swerving around the Corvus, fan-tailed or not. Please, help. Even if it means pecking my carrion fingers. Please. Let me bleed away the pulp and alight imagination.
First published in EMG-Zine: http://emg-zine.com/item.php?id=663