wrote this odd little poem in iowa and it keeps tripping through my mind. thought i’d share it:

so many there’s birds
float flying past my
seventh story window
in the grey of dead winter, in iowa,
(my first such grey)
delectable alone, and yet
with, in relation to,
others they go

all bird bones snap
wide open, of hollow mouths,
full brim of sweet kisses,
distraught to be so light
against the gale
above the shining snowish patch
knowing a nothing
of their own gloriousness

some do fly inward
on meta magnificent maps
full of arteries and escapes
thick claws dragging memories
from the beginning so long time
when we were still only human,
but desperate little liars so
no one could decipher
inside of the longing

but moxie is a fate,
tomorrow a mythical bent
strumming of all whispers,
and deception, and stupid
hectic fortune.
to catch then this wind
updrafting without mercy
is the joy i can afford

is the good life we can claim.

– mar 8, 2014