One Wing

Fate is a dark angel and deaf to our desperation + doubt.
Every kite ever flown, every first day of school,
the photographs taken when his blonde hair would still curl
are no consolation; considering the sweet tinctured sea that
swallows the soul so brutally + without remorse.

Still, the boy rises with every broken moon,
hovering + helpless while a voice whispers,
“You should land my hummingbird.”

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Gone Ghosts

My mother only took photographs of sadness. The Crown box camera clicked and fluttered the wide-eyed shutter that closed so slowly like a hesitant flower with its withering petals. The camera reminded me of a hearse and all of images were like minor funerals, the death of the moment each frame of the film captured. The still photographs were gravestones that we would visit on every holiday.

My mother thought of me as a suffering child for the way I always saw shipwrecks and storms in the eyes of other children. Also because I refused to have my photograph taken for I felt it was stealing, even then; stealing of the precious, unseen things that allow us to breathe in the rare air of the minor gods. I’ve always felt that our wings are not yet ready to fly quite so high just then and so we must learn to live among the ghosts of our ruined past before we reach the purer air. Even then, we risk the possibility of being torn to shreds by our doubt and the hawks whose eyes are nothing but the fuse of a fire we must fly through.

we bury sadness
in pictures of dying leaves
darkness has a way

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#9

I’ve been dead for years, splayed
on the flywheel of uncertain tides/

Banished by the gods to iridescent
indifference, a fuse of failure/

Please sign here, in blood for the
bones of yours alone/

The bruises become wings on which
electrified hopes are dashed/

Oh, the terror of the muses that play
only in the minor key/

The screams are tiny comets that burn
through an uncertain sky/

And dissolve or drown in silence.

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#3

Heartbreak birds with broken beaks
orbit the wilting stem/

While the tide arrives, ocean graves
for the broken vow allowed/

Shipwrecked strangers with ghosts
and shackles/

Fountains of fate and futures
left undone/

The smothered sun shines
blind, a lunar shell/

Wrapped in the luxury of
melancholic indifference/

The blessing arrival of absence

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Blindness

I’ve finally figured out that I’m blind.
Since birth I have seen only darkness
that I mistook for shadows. My mother
mocked me for my optimism and now
I know why.

Love awakened the truth of my blindness
and seared my lids shut to the sound of
shame. The heat of my heart has found
no flame to fight the bitter dark despite
the desire to fold myself between her
fragrant petals. Angst is an owl with large
orbit eyes that swallow entire planets.

Perhaps I’ve mistaken desire for love, light
for dark and prayers for poems. My entire
life has been miscast and the wings I thought
I’d grown are rocks that will drag me down
to drown in darkness.

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Call it Something Unexpected No. 2

Walking at the sea’s edge and I find silence within the crashing waves. We Walking at the sea’s edge and I find silence within the crashing waves. We all drown in our own silence. We float unadorned and untethered to the suffering song of quiet. Deep calls unto deep.

My soul is weary of my life and tempts my body to escape. It culls the favor of my blood and my will.

Imagine light.

The morning kind of light that suffers softly, sweetly. Oh, thy gentle wound, how you’ve strengthened me. What does the Psalmist say when the words waste away in the beggars mouth? The light of the soul bears wings and flies from the rotted sockets.

The soul speaks in silence while I speak in a million tongues and yet, none of them are mine. I’ve gone as far as stealing my prayers from the lips of dead prophets and called them my own. Even in the gulls cry do I hear something more devote, more real than any word I have uttered.

I meant love, although I could never say it. That word. We buried it with a gravediggers shovel just to see if it would resurrect itself and bear our weights and sorrows. Our sins were too sweet to ever want to beg for a savior.

[Temptation tinged with the desire to lose myself between the folds of your fluttering wings.]

As I walk, the rush of the sea invites me in and to leave you once and for all. A gull cries and lifts my eyes toward a silent sky.

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Alone + Afraid [the sweetest thing]

Alone + Afraid.

Still a child, a boy, who waits
for you to leave so that I may
suffer in silence and lick my
precious wounds and plot, so
carefully, my revenge against
your loving me so deeply.

You see, this love of yours is a
razor that cuts me and draws
blood, just as you would have it.
I’ve become your little Christ who
willing suffers + will willingly give
my life that you may live again.

[I have no wisdom. I have only wracked passion of a drunken sailor who
refuses the seas demands for drowning.]

Poets and prophets are beggars
with blood and bones that can
swim in the deepest silence as it
rests against the abyss. However,
they mock those whom they heal,
and cut the widows cords falling
back into squalor +shame.

[How do the hours move through the thicket of my heart
without being torn?]

Love, like the dawn, keeps stealing
and you continue to beg for it. Yet,
I am no savior, your son, nor am I a
poet or prophet. Beneath the grip of
my tender ghosts, you will find that
I am still, a boy, alone + afraid.

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