lazy posting

alright. here is an draft for a poem i was working on in june. it will find its way into a form at some point.

Pelicano

On our evening beach walk, a pelican
roosts on the lip of the sand bank
carved out by waves's same clutching fingers
that caught his wing and plucked him from the air.

He sits stunned, his wing's joint broken;
a terrible miscalculation.
I hover, an indifferent god, creating tragedy
and feel my spirit harden like the clay desert.

He will not live, you say;
he will be eaten or drown in the sea.
You are listless as the two identical birds
that glide near to observe his riteless passage,

divided by the merciless current
That ferries them to fulfill the line of flight
and leaves him on the bank to drag his snapped wing
and catch his beak on the sand.

The sky that night is brilliant, unfathomable orange and green
we sit close as the fire burns to dust
silenced by the terror of the bird,
his shadow forever wandering the bank.

He torments my sleep, screeches
and tears through the air, spilling bad omens.
We drive South, and the round trip begins to circle us like a noose,
whose tight knot was North.

alone again, naturally

sitting amoung the things i have owned i feel much like a relic myself. i run from inspiration like a lover. i am only concerned now with the surface of objects. i am tracing the outlines, expecting that once i connect all of the disjointed lines, a form will push itself outward and shine brilliantly. dull objects mock me. words are so painfully artificial. i am seeking purity and it continues to sidestep me - it is like chasing firelies whose fickle bodies flash sporadically. reality, unreality, reality, unreality... chasing them is futile so i sit in the rooky wood waiting for them to land and anoint my body in a green fire, then go out.

i soak chard in butter, sip mulled wine on a quiet fog soakd night sucking on half a cigarette, patiently, ardently. i am thinking of all of the birds that flock my yard - where do they sleep? have they found a way to dodge the reality of their environment or do they also sleep with one eye open? are they possibly more real even than i imagine them to be? am i spoiled by this overfertile imagination? perhaps all it does is wrap me up like seaweed in a beautiful ocean drowning ritual. picking off the salt of imagination exposes blank strips of blue sky that gape like breath. i am transfixed and floating in a dawn that is empty, save for the birds that cut across, solid, black thoughts so real i can pierce them with a needle and push them against a blank sheet to keep.