onthemetro

i keep writing about Wings because i am jealous of them our bird is black, so the maggot is white. wings are spread of creatures who delight in swallowing flies, after flies have sifted through the throat of a dead winter's deer. three perch beside a stump of mammal. as with every occasion it is a carcass that brings the family together. it is said    every organ must be lived in;    our children must be reared in blood. i am the one who never questioned it, falling in love with the all-stinking earth. now no more than a feather chased by wind, the way i have blown; a winged thing, no more

the owl is this and there its fist with feathers such owl of bard, preying poet bird with a mask to grow so nocturnal its face its place a bloody beak to speak its danger song rat-eater, lover, wingspan and talon-fingered claw creature to hover around all and each wound of trees easily to kill a rodent supper if you will align yourself into a star i will

what sea how it is welling your eyes a wet mess what tide where urchins of the ocean will spill to howl their elegy where mermaids will turn widows once brine has swallowed whole their sailor babes stewarding the land instead is why i never set sail with you but to lay in gardens, oh… a bed sheet rotten by the ultraviolet and our laps full of stars what black soil will pervert your knees there where moonlight will mirror out from your teeth to run fanatic toward cosmic space after bathing in the space among us where walking air pushes every dust one of sun-dried butterflies one of beaten rug with broom one of hone

say i & you too like mad we wandered wherever to god & asked it to appear & so it soul-sprouted out of earth or spilled all star-dusted from heaven or emerged from a gang of goliath worms & was so splendidly riddled with prisms or not we saw god in marvelous feathers of flaking gold or seven robes of mica or divinely impoverished with a putrid buzzard’s beard or whatever we were destined to perceive our phantoms of truth be so distinctly two of these that they must eventually become one see: down inside the kuk, kuk & skow crackling out each green heron beak is a different sort of time or now than is grown within the roh-r

his memories are making a glorious mud i. it is a lumberjack's wife whose veins are budding twigs, arms feeble as every dried branch to soak a shining star. it is her who bares such troubled wrists for oven mitts, so ardently delivers her hoggish assembly some hulking bird whose body cavity is crammed tight to the sphincter with a spiced bread. instinctively, she goes for the knife. there is some raucous applause as she serrates its oiled, peppered and flightless skin and on into its succulent chest meat as every spectator dreams of flying. her blade burrows farther in and under enough to dredge up a pinkish marrow, where