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Literature Text
The street-level apartment,
abandoned from wear and tornado
last spring, tells us love stories
in graffiti inscriptions.
Close enough to the road
that it leans looming over it,
the complex slumps, unused,
except by an eight year old boy;
old enough to have been told not to
and young enough to not understand.
He has hands that stutter—
hesitate—
because he folds paper
like he seals envelopes:
with purpose.
He has a mind that isn't reluctant;
why wish upon a star
when the beings
that can grant wishes
are in the spaces
between constellations?
Together, his head and hands
craft paper cranes.
Between knotted levels of rope,
cranes spread layered wings
and bob, breath-like,
waiting.
He molds shapes
out of hangers,
nestling his dreams
into metal and numbered pages.
He has soul in his eyes
and heart in his palms;
why doubt the beauty of self
when he can craft it
from discarded treasures?
A sound heard from his right tightly
to loosely on his left: an injured bird
is cultivated on the curbside.
Its head is down, staying down;
its wing up, staying up.
But the bird breathes: down, up.
In the alley,
his hanging garden of paper birds
on knotted levels of rope
bob, breath-like,
anticipating.
Why make a thousandth crane
when he can save a real one?
Little bird,
feathers splint with tape
and a popsicle stick--
nestled tight with his dreams.
He stands on tiptoes,
reaching, reaching;
clips the fabric boat
to metal hook
and lets it slide.
And he spins
among the cranes below,
a garden waltzing to his beat,
thin wings fluttering above the street,
and he waits
for his bird to fly home.
Why put yourself out on a limb
for happiness
if there's no one to share the song with?
He doesn't doubt his happiness
out on the limb of an apartment balcony
because the chirp-trill of a nursed bird
is inexpensive to heal.
He catches rocks
instead of wishing stars
and collects them
on thick twine,
his heart scrawled--
a different kind of poetry--
across torn pages
because the beings
might not hear him,
but someone will.
His small hands clasp,
stutter against,
release bits of him
throughout the sky
because life has to be more
than dimming stars...
and the belief
that not everyone
is worth being saved.
abandoned from wear and tornado
last spring, tells us love stories
in graffiti inscriptions.
Close enough to the road
that it leans looming over it,
the complex slumps, unused,
except by an eight year old boy;
old enough to have been told not to
and young enough to not understand.
He has hands that stutter—
hesitate—
because he folds paper
like he seals envelopes:
with purpose.
He has a mind that isn't reluctant;
why wish upon a star
when the beings
that can grant wishes
are in the spaces
between constellations?
Together, his head and hands
craft paper cranes.
Between knotted levels of rope,
cranes spread layered wings
and bob, breath-like,
waiting.
He molds shapes
out of hangers,
nestling his dreams
into metal and numbered pages.
He has soul in his eyes
and heart in his palms;
why doubt the beauty of self
when he can craft it
from discarded treasures?
A sound heard from his right tightly
to loosely on his left: an injured bird
is cultivated on the curbside.
Its head is down, staying down;
its wing up, staying up.
But the bird breathes: down, up.
In the alley,
his hanging garden of paper birds
on knotted levels of rope
bob, breath-like,
anticipating.
Why make a thousandth crane
when he can save a real one?
Little bird,
feathers splint with tape
and a popsicle stick--
nestled tight with his dreams.
He stands on tiptoes,
reaching, reaching;
clips the fabric boat
to metal hook
and lets it slide.
And he spins
among the cranes below,
a garden waltzing to his beat,
thin wings fluttering above the street,
and he waits
for his bird to fly home.
Why put yourself out on a limb
for happiness
if there's no one to share the song with?
He doesn't doubt his happiness
out on the limb of an apartment balcony
because the chirp-trill of a nursed bird
is inexpensive to heal.
He catches rocks
instead of wishing stars
and collects them
on thick twine,
his heart scrawled--
a different kind of poetry--
across torn pages
because the beings
might not hear him,
but someone will.
His small hands clasp,
stutter against,
release bits of him
throughout the sky
because life has to be more
than dimming stars...
and the belief
that not everyone
is worth being saved.
Literature
with love
i.
sleepwalking with stars
like bulletwounds, tonight
is for wandering and
loving people I’ve never met.
I have a hole in my heart for
the boy on my bus who balances
the world on his chin as he sleeps.
I’m drawn to a sunshine girl leaking
beams every time she opens her
mouth to smile. and still, I follow
a boy who walks across clouds;
I want to ask him to send me up
like a balloon.
ii.
ways I need to be loved:
a hand heavy on my hip to remind me
gravity is more than an ideal, a
soft kiss to bring me back from
other galaxies, a calm whisper
when I’ve run out of words
but the silence is too
much,
iii.
I’m severe
Literature
Coalescence in (and of) Poetry
Chatoyant stargazer, you with
skin as opulent as spring itself
hair a realm where fairies roam
limbs redolent of riverbed soil
lead me to the illusive seams
of this halcyon of gossamer dreams
over orion and past the eye of god
Grandiloquent desiderata, you are
Literature
unarticulated
tonight I ask myself:
where are you going with all these names
in your pockets? syllables that taste
unauthentic in the desperate American
mouth.
repression is a series of images
golden streetlights
blinking
pedantically
earthbound angels breathing
flame, starving hands speaking
in tongues, glazed eyes
asking are you fucking okay
pale skin becoming moonlight,
reflecting and refracting and
the quiet understatement
of listless
lips.
mutual poison.
Suggested Collections
Featured in Groups
A collaboration with the wonderful, talented, and kind Nichrysalis.
This poem is ENTIRELY based off THIS beautiful music video: Breathturn, by Hammock
Please go give the song and video a watch and a listen--they're both absolutely gorgeous.
Also, go show Nichrysalis some love!
Wishing CranesThe street-level apartment,
abandoned from wear and tornado
last spring, tells us love stories
in graffiti inscriptions.
Close enough to the road
that it leans looming over it,
the complex slumps, unused,
except by an eight year old boy;
old enough to have been told not to
and young enough to not understand.
He has hands that stutter—
hesitate—
because he folds paper
like he seals envelopes:
with purpose.
He has a mind that isn't reluctant;
why wish upon a star
when the beings
that can grant wishes
are in the spaces
between constellations?
Together, his head and hands
craft paper cranes.
Between knotted levels of rope,
cranes spread layered wings
and bob, breath-like,
waiting.
He molds shapes
out of hangers,
nestling his dreams
into metal and numbered pages.
He has soul in his eyes
and heart in his palms;
why doubt the beauty of self
when he can craft it
from discarded treasures?
A sound heard from his right tightly
to loosely on his left: an injured bird
is cultivated on t
June 20th, 2014
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