Icarus’ sister exists only in living stone,
the watchful daughter of the craftsman
in the middle of his own labyrinth,
once his prized creation, placed in
the prime line of his drafts, design, eye
of his genius, now a relic existing
in a dusty nowhere cobweb corner
stained with Minotaur blood,
watching her fleshy father
falteringly stitch wax, feathers, twigs
to a frame that could not
take the water and sun of every day birds,
not even the weight of a son’s pride
who complacently raveled and unraveled
his father’s clew, half hearing  cautions,  
his mind flapping beyond the planets.

She cried over how Daedalus could
dote over such mortal error
while she exists in perfect neglect,
cried a tear turned prayer that
mixed with the dust, the murderous
blood crusting the rusty teeth of Perdix’s saw,
knowing hence  that men **** their best dreams,
fear the successful  flight of  their ideas, and  
that her faith, trust now forever lived with the gods.

Hephaestus heard her and bellowed her mind,
taught her to seek inspiration in the rejected
metal slivers that littered the workshop
like the sand of Naxos where Theseus
left Ariadne in her abandoned dreams.

In the cry of that other lost daughter
she heard the sound of ascent,
saw father and son in erratic flight
and followed to the top of the labyrinth
to watch two glints align in descent
and one splash into the sea.

Graced with the knowledge
that forbearers would
name the waters below for this fool,
she deposited Icarus in their father’s arms,
and flew away on brass wings of her own design,
wingtips skipping waves, seeking the sun.

Wings,
soft, feathery, downy,
wings,
made for flight,
Forged for a fight,
wings,
scarred, ******, broken,
Wings,
---
Wingtips press against the soil,
Earthen, Brown,
the power of the Earth,
shared to me,
Ritual, complete,
I feel it all,
rich power,
---
Graceful wingtips,
trailing crimson,
across innocent marble floors,
oh how imbued with guilt,
they drag,

You're changing this cocoon heart
The butterflies are too big for my stomach
so they venture to the ends of my being
I’m growing wingtips for fingertips that flutter when you laugh
And in the moments I make your eyes smile, I fly
All the while, unraveling the most fragile strands of myself
Like string simply because
The only thing holding me is your hands

I am a kite
I ascend to the top of the universe with mirth, unafraid of falling,
And fall, I do
I fall over and over again every time your cheeks blush
And every time you bring me back down to Earth
You bring me in, and you hold me close
And what puts my mind at ease is
Our ribs are starting to fit together like puzzle pieces
Our hearts are fusing like science I can’t comprehend,
But if God was a card dealer, I’d understand, because
God dealt me the very,
Very best hands

Your hands
that shock mine every time I touch them
And when that happens we never fail to search
For the sparks in each other’s eyes
We peer into each other’s souls
Finding atoms that fizz like fireworks
I am finding God in your electricity
We hold still for the Lord
But absolutely nothing about this is static

I am the ocean
There is more life swimming inside of me than anyone’s ever seen
And somehow you are still more astonishing
You are the moon
From dust, God made you to hold me
You push and pull me
Like tides, gently rocking me to sleep
We are standing still
But love is not something we can stop if we squeeze

Like trying to catch rivers in our bare hands
We’re finding it more enchanting to catch each other’s raindrops on our tongues
Because we are water cycles, and some days
We are drenched in this love
Finding it ironic how our torrential downpours only lift us up
So, we hold hands
Run through the rain
And know that no matter how hard we squeeze
It will never stop

I want to go dancing
I want my feet to sing louder than my voice
I want them to sing in tune with the colors your lips make when you sing
Because I’m so close to colorblind that the rest of my senses are heightened
And nothing tastes sweeter than the
Rainbows you whisper on my eardrums

But I want to feel softer than this
I want to touch subtler than two magnets never ever can
But still have the same fervor
I want our ribs to feel less like rickety fences
And more like toy xylophones
Or the color spectrum

So one day we’ll have mapped out each other’s blues
And we can truly say, we’re on the same wavelength
So that one day,
Our hearts will beat lullabies on our skeletons,
Reminding us even the hard things in life can be beautiful
If we let it

I know that fuzzy feels cozy
And change can be crippling
But as I dream stars through the silk sheets
I hold your hand
And pray you won't supernova in the morning

and there i was.
all of 3 and a half,
draped in hopping silhouettes;
neck deep in swaying hips
and blaring tunes
tied to kick drums.
dramatic rim taps
and wingtips cluttered
cross the wooden floor.
surrounded by tall men with
tall women whose heels
unforgivingly grazed
the groaning floor boards.
their gowns thick
as kitchen curtains
that seemed to flutter
like butterflies in hurricanes.

i heard the summer whisper;
her hums sweetly floating
through grand windows
tall as ten of me;
tasting the rhythm
with her tongue,
she blew a cool sigh;
flooding the steaming stew
of old souls with young bones.
sunk real deep between
4 counts and hi hats
to twirl her way
into their step;
a type of swing
'cept it had a bounce to it
like steeple chasers.
those ladies with copper faces
and stone seasoned roots
with joints as old as time
played tag with the down beat.
those daddys dodging
in their tailoreds
like taxis in traffic;
toxic with a plague of ghouls
like the Count, King Cole
and Billie, Fitzgerald, Gillespie.

Then,
just as the summer silenced her hiss,
just as the sun
dug its heels into the dirt,
making its last ditch efforts
to remain present,
dusk untied its bows;
unwrapping a gift like glory.
and we were bathed in glory
that laughed like lovers
and kissed like dogs.
it drenched us in sloppy showers
glistening gold like sweat.
yet still,
we emerged refreshed.
so as the night
began its usual
chocking down of day
and good afternoons
cacooned into goodevenings,
i stood there;

all of 3 years old.
surrounded by silhouttes
that could only belong
to old souls with young bones
who belittled big bands
with their own vibrations;
those copper ladies
and skyscraper sized fathers
in tailored suits
who two stepped
to both sunsets and groove
grew into shadows.
and i stood in the midst of
those dimmed stars;
stamina riddled.
knowing that as
a summer day died,
a summer night
had only just begun.

Blackened bird upon my brow;
Corvus Christi on my crown:

Could there be, oh could there be
Balm, sweet Balm in Galilee
Wild Roses grown in Gilead
White Daffodils on Sharon's sea . . .

The shores, the shores of Sharon's sea:
wingtips lapping cedar beams
leave no trail of murrey'd deeds;
tapping shoulders with your blades
rustling in the hollow reeds,
among the Seals of Solomon
Two Lovers, lost in Lebanon,
rose, to where the Stars of David bloom --

She in gules and He in vert . . .

Sable Bird upon our brows;
Corvus Christi on our crowns.

I sat in a catatonic state
Looking forward to sate
my appetite
for coffee,
but unable
to move or enjoy the taste.

Frozen.

A mask of glazed eyes blinded
by a bright white light, reflected so much more
was I standing on the wrong train tracks,
had I died and waiting for my turn in line,
was this my karma as a deer in the headlights?
none of these had a chance to cross my mind.

a figure silouhetted poured from that light,
her features delicate and skin so pale, in an eerily
beautiful way, was that her hair or wingtips peering
draped gracefully over her shoulders, and she asked me
"would you like to try our new mocha and vanilla via?"

I saw spots of white, and said "I would if I could see ya,
please step closer but out of the light"
as she stepped out of the light and to my side,
I just realized this whole time I had been trapped by
a reflected beam of light from the sunshine outside,
that found a highly polished mall marble floor, next time,
and there will be a next time, I will wear sunglasses
so as to not be served, like fine wine, before my time.

I remember the tops of clouds,
Looking as far as I could see.
I don't know if the Pacific
Is a pretty place,
But at altitude,
At least it's sunny.
Under the cumulus blanket,
Man makes his own clouds,
Thick with metal and smoke,
All black and shrapnel,
And God help you
If one opens up around your wingtips.
I remember nosing down,
Gritted teeth and twisted belly,
Eyes flitting between instruments
And the little ship
Getting fatter and fatter
Through my prop.
You wait till the last second,
Drop your ordinance,
And pull your nose
Up and up and then
You push that little throttle bar
To the limit,
And then the **** black clouds
Start up all around you,
And when your big baby shakes,
You know something's wrong,
And you cry out
"Buck? Buck?"
Like I did.
And then you don't know
If your face is covered in tears
Or blood from you or Buck.
I remember landing on that carrier,
Big and metal and gray,
Like a big tombstone for your friend,
And your plane is the coffin.
**** it, I remember.

8:30 A.M.

She wakes him up with breakfast
on the night stand.
Two eggs over-easy and lightly burnt
on the bottom so the yolks don't run,
two pieces of sourdough toast cut
diagonally, and a cup of coffee /
no sugar, no cream / brewed
at 8:15, two hours after
she got up to clean the house.
She mopped the floors twice,
tied the trash bags and set
them at the curb. She tested, dusted,
and retested the stagnant ceiling fans.
She vacuumed the rugs and wiped
down all wood, granite, and steel
surfaces.

She lemon Pledges allegiance to him.

While he's at work, she cleans his laundry.
She clean-presses his button-ups, making
sure to cut any stray threads and neatly
mend any loose seams. She irons a firm
crease in his pants and shines his all-black
wingtips.     She doesn't use Kiwi. Something high-class
                      that I've never heard of.
When he comes home and sets his briefcase
near the furnace vent to sulk in his leather
chair, she consoles him. She pulls the lace hem
of her sundress to her waist and ***** his ****
until he comes to his senses.
You look like a billion-dollar, gold-plated
monument feeding the world rosegold birdseed
from your immaculate palm binding my hair
like a Dutch Warmblood's tail, darling.
She dabs the corners of her mouth trying
not to smudge her lipstick, straightens
her dress, and hurries off to wash
his car.

My mother’s second cousin
went to a fine university,
majored in anthropology,
and wore Italian wingtips
and a black fedora pulled
down rakishly over one eye.

I hear he was a handsome man.

He joined Toastmasters
and spoke extemporaneously
to small crowds of strangers.

He packed a leatherette
bag and went bowling
every other Sunday night.

He took his children camping
and taught them to catch a fire
with magnesium and tinder.

He mowed the lawn
with lapidary precision;
neighbors admired
his yard: brilliant green,
sharp as an emerald.

He played the spinet piano
in the hallway after dinner,
the metronome clicking out time.

His black suits—
immaculate skins
of a domesticated
creature—smelled
of cigarette smoke
and fountain pen ink.

But, according to my mother,
something went wrong along the way.
He began to hunger for something that clawed
just beyond the evenly trimmed hedgerows.

He smiled at night, listening
to malevolent creatures leaping
from rooftop to rooftop.

He began to hate his wife’s
brown dresses: brown is
the color of compromise,
he seethed to himself.

His voice became quieter;
bowling became a bother.

Eventually,
he left his fedora hanging
on the coat rack in the hall.
His neglected wingtips gathered
dust in the bedroom closet.
The pockets of his favorite suits
swelled with cryptic notes, written
to himself with stolen fountain pens.

One night, when the children were sleeping,
he set the table and killed his wife with a spoon.

I hear he was a handsome man.

Of the hospital
I sat clenching a leopard
filled with beads.

Father beside me
Tapping his chestnut wingtips against
the bloodless linoleum floors.

It was September. The heat oppressive,
Like the Moors toward foes
in the Iberian Peninsula.

Rays illuminated the woes of those ‘round me.
A barrier existed
emanating from within

Fleshed out by a zeal, to not be                                       on one’s own
At the dinner table, as Father responded
to a **** addict’s violent implosion on Nile Street.

At Carmel-by-the-Sea building sand castles to be
--washed away by the tides
on the bay enrobed with fire
Fleshed out by a desire to be

dethroned.

Fulfillment flooded the lobby,
Father ceased his tapping,
A Florence Nightingale lead the way

past bland white doors,
past elderly covered in black crusted sores
past a priest who pours a libation.

In to the room of your entrance,
Nearest and dearest gathered ‘round
the blemished linoleum floor

Warm cries hollowed down
the halls, signifying your existence
Clenching a leopard

filled with beads. (Now in the attic)
Mother Rose freckled and content
Embraced you, as the world still spun

My eyes a maelstrom of red yellow and black,
seeped streams of grey streams of grey
for the loneliness fleeted that Autumn day.

I was walking in
that old betrayer,
rain.
I was soaked to the gills,
and my wingtips were
sloshing on every
broken sidewalk.
The wind took my last
match, so smoking was out.
I'd give my liver for
a lighter and two
dimes to rub together.
I think I'll join the
carnival, get on that
tunnel of love and never
get off.

I’ve got no right and of that I’m very well aware, that I should have a say in how you wear your hair. That I shouldn’t think it looks the nicest after you’ve showered, when it’s darker and the lines of your combs teeth leave neat rows in your styled way.  

Or maybe that I love you when you’ve shaved, but also grizzly bear you reminds me it’s the weekend. When you're ruff, I know there are a few more precious hours in the Saturday and Sundays on the calendar.

I won’t ever tell you that your grey tee shirt is my favorite of your limited wardrobe, and that you in my favorite color—it’s blue if you  were wondering, though I'm sure you already know— makes my head swoon for a bit. When you wear a button up, and leave it un-tucked, I think about the white vee neck beneath and how I can see it peeking out from beneath your collar.  

I love the way your suit jacket makes you stand up straighter, and how your suit pants when you sit reveal those brown socks you always wear with your wingtips. I even love those blue jeans (I think they’re your only pair) that aren’t stylish, but soft and comfortable. And the brown belt with the cracking leather and brass buckle you always play with when you’re laying on the floor with me, watching nonsense tv at the end of a day. I love your sweatpants, and the way that when you lie on your side, your boxer band shows like a tease. I like the way you never fix it, but it fixates me.

I wish for one thing only: wings
Why wings, you ask?
Well, they've so much to offer
I wish for wings to fly
To soar through the clouds
To dance circles around you
To fly closer to you
I wish for wings to embrace
To shelter myself when I'm lonely
To hold you closer when we hug
To shield our kisses from prying eyes
I wish for wings to love
To caress your cheeks with wingtips
To tickle friends with feather touches
To brush snow and leaves from your grave
I wish for wings to be strong
To help me flee those who hurt
To comfort myself with their presence
To remind people that angels do exist

Whisk me away

At night

In the blue sky

In your bright yellow car



We will speed along the empty

Highway

Where stars and bright airplane wingtips

And shooting comets

Will decorate the heavens



And we will listen to

Random country music

While you talk

And you listen to me

And I will never come

Back

Never come back

Because you will take

Me home

woman – it is when your hairbreadth laughter
spreads into the world, pressed low against the breast
of grass and skirts of flowers,

     like a well-oiled lamp, you proceed with your
terse splendors, your sharp wingtips curved with gropes
of steel with what notion of a senseless blow but a smile
scrunched deep within the water?

rammed into the dry throat of the afternoon,
   a hot flesh half-bitingly rippling, fondling into my throbbing
water – from the abrupt, sweet-smelling rise of tide
    arrives what I am in pursuit as a man, smoothly writhing
the languor of tired believing the always, do you still cling

                              to me like harsh wind in Spring?

Sun beam, set upon your skin and balancing on the edge of your smile.

You're a sun beam. We've gone so many new places together, I've seen things I've always wanted to,
Held hands in moments I never thought I'd live.
Youve brought light to midnight walks in the stars. Made stars luminous.

You're courage, coursing through me.
You are lightning in my lungs when I need to be louder,
Thunder in my heart when my body can't move faster,
Each new adventure winds itself through mountain paths and forest trails,
Stepping over the limbs of giant oaks, lifting us up to the sun so that you might become radiance at the tree peaks.

Noni,
We may not spend every moment touching wingtips with cloud bursts.
We can't afford to take vacations every few months,
It'll be a long time before we get to start traveling the world together.

Yet somehow you've taken me so many places.
Let lips act as a full gas tank and taken me over the moon on just one breath.

You've made mountains crumble back into the molehills I made them out of.

I've seen the ridge above the clouds, the sun breaking down to reveal itself to the earth.
Ive seen lightning strike the mountain side and fire in the forest.
I've made runs down green flowing hills, grass moving like ocean waves with the cool rolling winds.

I've done all this from my bed, each trip a moment I'm stuck by your side
Giving kisses to the skin on your stomach,
Raising little hairs on your forearm as our hands slide past each other.

I've never known paradise, but I've known an oasis with you.

You're a Sunbeam, and in my tiny shriveled patch of dirt, you're the rain.

Here you've planted yourself and grown in me.
You're the new places I want to go, and the new places I'll never be.

Youve seen all the versions of me and somehow shine light on the best parts of each…

Sun beam, set upon my skin and the reason behind every one of my smiles.

Happy anniversary. It hasn't been the easiest 3 years...but the best part about you is that you didn't want easy. You wanted love. And you've taught me how stubborn you have to be to love someone with all your heart. To love someone so much that looking at them makes you feel brand new. Blessed. Lighter and faster and stronger and brave.

Happy anniversary. To my one and only. To the one I'll be stubborn for,
To the one I'll fall over for,
To the one I'll be here for.

I love you. My sun beam. My silly goose. My baby girl.

I love you, and there's no way I'll let another year pass without you by my side. Without you in my life.

~

Dusty leather laces
Knots of endless fraying
Caustic on the ribbons of a heart now in the shade

Promises are broken
Thin ice on the river
Postcards tossed into the trash so long ago displayed

Darkness finds the corner
Shadows hold the meaning
Does the world still spin when every other place is spared

Tight along the border
Guards embrace the fence line
Lost along the boundaries of love no longer shared

Knees are feeling weaker
Tears now find their falling
Puddles drench the wingtips neatly polished on the strand

There outside the window
Sunlight streams the valley
Teaching us the woman doesn’t always make the man

Sometimes she breaks the man…

In seasons we sprout,
dressed to the nine
                               in compliments under
flocked skies of abandoned webs. The jaws of breeding

snapped shut
around the ankles of his inky blue wingtips
                                    her glossy leopard skin high-heels.

Forgive us tree of knowledge, we have recreated you
                        fonder in the image of a concrete rose,
a bull freed from its matador,
a thorn on the vinyl to cycle the serenade.

Please listen--envy the blister silence,
it sweats in the mind of the innocent.
The days of milk and fruit are over.
We are ready to depart the branches of thee,
                            feel the glassy snow beneath our feet

~

Dusty leather laces
Knots of endless fraying
Caustic on the ribbons of a heart now in the shade

Promises are broken
Thin ice on the river
Postcards tossed into the trash so long ago displayed

Darkness finds the corner
Shadows hold the meaning
Does the world still spin when every other place is spared

Tight along the border
Guards embrace the fence line
Lost along the boundaries of love no longer shared

Knees are feeling weaker
Tears now find their falling
Puddles drench the wingtips neatly polished on the strand

There outside the window
Sunlight streams the valley
Teaching us the woman doesn’t always make the man

Sometimes she breaks the man…

At a quarter past eleven AM Charles took the stairs down to the lobby. Spare, yet stridently attired, he moved with the august vigor of a man only a third of his sixty-two years. Smart shoes, brimming smile and shoulders laden in the heavy weave of his sharp overcoat, Charles exchanged a quick wink with the precisely groomed lobby girl.

"Always a pleasure." He quipped.

"Always." She replied.

Drawing a deep breath of the frigid air, Charles paused as he pressed his shining wingtips into the undisturbed palate of that previous night's latest snowfall. Looking around excitedly, admiring the deep shimmer of that brisk morning:

Charles was struck down immediately by a large volume public transport–moving at an unusually high velocity.

-

This is my spot, just outside these green coffee house doors,
my piece of sidewalk, my place in this world
A small square of concrete where I try to bring smiles
to those in a hurry, hustling past, chasing their lives

Opening the case, I bring out my constant companion
I love her feel, smooth and perfect, she fits so nicely in my hands
Her neck like soft butter against my calloused fingers
A black Takemine cutaway, my favorite guitar, my best friend

There was a time when I would make eye contact,
cast a smile and a thank you at those who would stop and listen
But times have changed, people aren’t as friendly, smiles aren’t
what they used to be and the frowns just bring me down

Now from beneath my hat all I see are legs and shoes, it amazes me
all the different shoes, what they say about a person. Shiny shoes,
maybe a quarter, nice high heels a dollar or two, sneakers,
worn and tattered, my best customers, a five may fall when they pass

It’s not much, but it is a living at least for me and it’s not really a job
I don’t have to be here, I want to…playing music for strangers, for me
It’s kind of like writing poetry, only you listen instead of reading
and the coins and bills finding my case…comments, but better

I start today the same as every other day, with our song,
the one we sang together in school, the song we related too…funny
She was my heart, the one that got away…so what, I never got over her
It’s my deal not yours…I press the strings, fingers preparing to play

She was the love of my life, we were meant to be, at least I thought so
but after school we went in different directions, it happens I guess,
that was so many years back…I lost track of her long ago,
but my mind never did and I suppose my heart didn’t either…I play

A few coins trickle in…shiny shoes, wingtips…feeling sorry money,
but that’s okay with me, it’s food or few beers eventually
Then a ten spot hits the felt, gorgeous high heels, those with a red sole
I know my smile is growing as I arrive at the chorus

“And you fly away today, and you fly away tomorrow”    
When I hear a melodic voice singing along with me, it is the high heels,
the harmony is perfect and beautiful and…sounds so **** familiar…
I lift my head up to see…it is her, after all of these years...it is her

As in the
verses of
Isaiah six,
to me came
a fiery
serpent
bearing
bliss. One
to us
known to
be in the
most high
order of
thy holy
angels;
and she
possesseth
many an
eye and
wilt one
day hath
humankind
beholding
her pent
wingtips,
and she shalt
cleanse thy
unclean lips
and purge
thy sinful souls
with live
burning coals
hereby.

God speaking
without
speaking
once told
to Isaiah,
"I wilt take
all but a
tenth of
their cities,
and the lands
wilt be burned
again and again
until the trees
shall cast their
leaves, and
thereof the
substance
shall be the
holy seed.

Thereafter, her
seraph wings
did thence
open up,
unfold, to
be thereby
a cause, a
love, a flame
to need.

Faith is not
a thing
made up,
and is
hardly
newfangled,
but I saieth
she therewith
displayed it
all; and 'twas
nothing short
of supreme
blessedness!

Then I beheld
her e'en
brighter,
with showy
spangle, and
her attire, a
pristeen
and
impressive
dress, that
was beaming,
lit, bright
with color,
and with
shapeliness
of contour.

Her shining
light like
refractory
gold or
peerless
bits of
silver;
and something
unknown did
glint within
her to
wholly then
bewilder.

Her fire sword
was sheathed
and I did
the most
forward enter.
With shy wing
shield so
still, she
can still
our
meanest
ire, for
all must
therein
endure
what we
feel for
each
and
one
another.

And none
therefore
can
trust
mental
anguish
to dull
in this,
our
loneliest
and darkest
hour.

Therewithal,
loyal
followers,
actions
shall
follow­
words,
ignite
if you
will
the
glowing
candles,
and play
upon your
lyre,
but not
upon
His
Word,
and
forevermore
you wilt
have
your needs
fulfilled
with
hearts
afire;
rest assured.

We shall
hear ye
but not
understand,
the great
forsaking
in the
midst of
the land,
and we
see but
do not
perceive!

Now hear
her pure
emotions
entire
thereat
swear to
inveigle
yet, our
lives so
chaotic,
so
disordered,
but we
can be
rekindled
by a
moving
fire of
an
unstained
object, and
sure enough
hypnotic;
and of a
fervor I
foretell
to be
higher
than all
other
seraphim
in the
ultimate
choristers
choir.

And she does
as e'er sing
the fairest
hymn to
Him, being
gentle and
the most
melodic.
She is a
being
disentangled,
henceforth
being the
nearest
being of
any angel
by far
to the
safety of
God's
hands.

She's an angel
that much
more the
nigher to
His protection
and His
guidance; and
free will I
suspect was
denied her
in all but
her affections...
and for that
reason it
wilt be she
that to me
God sends
again.

And to Him
I heard it
said, Holy,
holy, holy,
is the lord
of hosts:
the whole
earth is
full of
His glory!

And with that,
the Lord shook
again the
doorway
posts, and
the house
that filled
with smoke,
now is
before me
-such as is
our Saviour
surely upon
His throne.

She's gone
Little dove.
Gun
Little love.
Done
Little love.
Done gone
Little love.
Done done
Little love.
Gone done it
Little love.
Done ****** it
Little love.
****** up flew away
Little dove.
No love from the glove
Little love.
Nothing done done it since like my
Little love.
Nothing quenches, nothing touches like my
Little love.
Oh, how it hurts to think of my
Little love. Lovely dove.
Dove with blood on the wingtips
And a tear for each eye
Little love.
How oily little love flies now
A paintbrush of pain in the evening sky,
Oh how she smears the heavens
And in my eyes the colors of the rainbow
Blur,
Lovely painted dove.
How i wander naked, these streets at night,
My shame and rage my only garments, and i can barely stand straight.
Oh, little love.

I wake to wingtips spreading out from fingers wrapped around a gun, the Sun decides to rise and risk my wrath,

Monday blasts away and I'm shot down here to London, not like my home town but close enough with traffic comes and sleeping dogs that try to wake the sleeping policemen,

Kentucky, pizza, ham and cheese, save me from the double decker, a diet coke will do me please.

******* everywhere and rubbished everywhere I go
my second home's a ******* bin, throw your trash out, move on in,
a tin of ten percent will set me straight, never too early but it might be too late
so I'll take a can or two and what's a man to do to get served around here?

and the wingtips float above the ground in the silence of that greater sound which dances through my dreaming night
it's Monday and I'll be alright
I only need some coffee.

The clock had chimed it's
Midnight song
The scribe did ponder doom
Lamplight broke
The shadows long
Within his spacious room.
The light it flicked and fell upon
His sleek head so neatly groomed
It shook as he recounted wrongs
Sad countenance assumed.
No matter how the
Clock world gong
T'would not dispell the gloom
The devil had scribe
On trident prongs
His wraith o'r Poe did loom.

Edgar Allan was in deep despond
As he thought of angel seen
he had escaped the
Benighted pond
For her, his he'vnly queen
And tho he had no magic wand
To bring about her gleam
Again to hear the lovely sound
Of her wingtips keen
His heart once more
began to pound
Thinking of his dream.

The bust of Pallus, pastey pallid
Did o'rlook the crime
While Poe sought to
write a ballad
It seemed nothing
would rhyme
His heart beat like a mallet
He, a poet in his prime
Would not take to his
Down pallet
'Til seeing his sweet, sublime.

Lenore. Angel of his dream.


SoulSurvivor
Catherine Jarvis
(C) October 1, 2014

As in the verses of Isaiah 6,
to me came a fiery serpent bearing bliss.
One to us known to be
in the highest order of the holy angels;


and she possesses many an eye,
and wilt one day have humankind
beholding her pent wingtips;


and she shall cleanse thy unclean lips
and purge thy sinful souls
with live burning coals
   -hereby as in the days of old.


God to Isaiah once told,
"I will take from man all but a tenth of their cities,
and the lands will be burned again and again
until the trees shall cast their leaves,
and thereof the substance shall be the holy seed."


Thereafter, her seraph wings did thence open
up-unfold-to be thereby a cause, a love, a flame to need.


Faith is not a thing made up, and hardly is newfangled,
but I saith she therewith displayed it all; and it was
nothing short of supreme blessedness!

Then I beheld her e'en brighter, with showy spangle, and her
attire, a pristine impressive dress that was beaming, lit, bright
with color,  and with shapeliness of contour.


Her shining light like refractory gold, or peerless bits of silver:
and something unknown did glint from within her,
to wholly then bewilder.


Her fire sword was sheathed, and I did most forward enter.


Now with a shy wing shield so still, she can still our meanest ire,
for all must therein endure
what we feel for each and one another;

and none therefore can trust mental anguish to be dull in this,
our loneliest and darkest hour.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~­~
Therewithal, loyal followers, actions shall follow words.
So ignite if you will the glowing candles, and play upon your lyre,
but not upon His word  -and forevermore you will have your needs fulfilled, with hearts afire; rest assured.

We shall hear ye but not understand, the great forsaking
in the midst of the land, we see but do not perceive!

Now hear her pure emotions entire thereat swear to inveigle yet,
our lives so chaotic, so disordered, but we can be rekindled
by a moving fire of an unstained non-object that is hypnotic and of
a fervor I foretell, to be higher than all other seraphim in
the ultimate choristers choir.

And she does as e'er sing so well, the fairest hymn to Him
   -being gentle and the most melodic.

She is a being disentangled, henceforth being the nearest
being of any angel by far to the safety of God's hands.

She's an angel that much more the nigher to His protection
and His guidance; and free will I suspect was denied her
in all but her affections.
And for that reason I suspect it will be she that to me He will send again.

And to Him I heard it said, "H o l y,  h o l y,  h o l y,   is the Lord of all hosts:
the whole earth is full of His  g l o r y!"

And with that, the Lord by Word shook again the doorway posts, and the house that filled with smoke, now is before me, such as is our Savior surely upon His throne.