Seated stock-still among the unsettled press of pressed bodies, faces tight, eyes tired, all pressed for time, I looked away and took to scrawl, hands shaking for the woman I've hardly met.
There's something to be said for the first impression infatuations that jam the bicycle chain in your vocal cords. She saw me, my sweat-slick palm frantically extended to hers. And then I walked away, curbing the coiled spring in my step with little thought for the fact that her presence would thenforth be no promise.
But by the time I take to the root of life after love, literature, our eyes have met a time or twelve more anyways.
Is it the Earth or is it just me that believes there could be something richer, intangible as a fistful of jam underwater, but sharp and craved as its flavor?
Or maybe I'm shallow. Susceptible to impulse from the first glance in the looking glass to want a few days and no more. Short run time makes a festival no less spectacular. But it’s the closest thing to madness to be so far out for something I can’t put my finger on.
Because our shared sphere makes full moon and silver spoon feel like one in the same: my thin excuse to savor blood.
Til comes from the frenzied beginning the shamefaced end of obsession, quashed like an invasive species trying only to take wing where it shouldn’t.
It’s sad. It’s necessary. Fending off the black bib I’d like to wrap tourniquet-tight round my heart, so I could waste my nights on birdsong to keep me awake until morning.
But that’s another line on which all people are divided: those who delight in the breaking of the house sparrow’s neck, and those who are sorrowful with or without. Well-disguised are these pointed bludgeons to the thoughts that could otherwise last, to the things that shape life.
And what is a proverbial fistful of ******* jam to LIFE?
...In truth, so much.
But that which makes you feel routed, which strips your own mind on which you've always fallen back on of its splendor is far from the best for a person. Never out of casual love upon which I can rest my bare neck could I abandon this heart's fullest brace.
When love is strength, never let there be the moment of deepest weakness when beak meets spine.
This day’s been a spectacle. Marvelous. Frothing at the mouth as it sings.
But now, I’ll plan to put myself to bed at a reasonable hour. Wipe red-stained feathers on my festival attire, and lay awhile to feel new again.
And though I’ll howl—Only howl. Never bite the hand that fed my eyes their twinkle—and think fanciful thoughts even when a long night’s diminished, let it be remembered that love is built barbule by barbule, different from afar to up close.
It's winter. I've trembled these past winters, but this year is warmer than before. The moving landscape feels like progress, even when we move in opposite directions. I know to keep the river out of my lungs.
I'm still pressed in among stressed souls forced sessile.
There's a woman in the West, but horses to the Right.
The day and night and another night will fade in their time, and I'll melt that worn steel to make spurs.
Dedicated to those worth gathering fish from the river with more flavor than strictly professional for.