recording of a fallen star

ghost of some other’s fortune.

the recording of a fallen star.

captured reflection reflected (neglected) ripple trick till the stomach’s sick. sliding high from the other side a self (not quite the self), lady in red (covered head), clucking from beneath her covering:

don’t go away stranger. stay a little longer, I’ve a daisy, another daisy twisted to crown and twirled tight around and begging beats for five-petal song. what are you doing with all this waiting, this tail-chasing, this mask-making? isn’t there some something-or-other called to uncover (discover), isn’t the sum some something-or-other, and you the only one with any math?

head shakes her shape away and if tongue were split I’d call beyond caw, summon sounds to draw moon to living room for midnight illumination. hunt for similar equations reveals heads turned into neighboring stations, blinking through bars at prisoners poisoned, and me translucent, cobweb hand, erasing all the almost i am.

still i waited (fated).

hallucinated.

armor-plated.

ghost of some other’s fortune.

the recording of a fallen star.

brown paper bag and purple crayon map, oh here’s another star and another, connected by three lines of triangle trick, location tagged throat-lump bagged, colored lines, colored confines. water-logged in winter showers doors locked and concrete blocked. just give me a minute, just one fucking minute. let me call the colors down.

scrying lump scanned by grandmother hands, handkerchief’d, initials stitched, there’s too much shouting (under the lines) escaped from triangle confines, there’s too much shouting and finger pointing and me hiding in the nowhere to hide. tucked into paper head into book there’s too much shouting too many voices each stumbling over another scrambling to surface, scratching for surface and there’s only one scratch to this paper one pen to trick one note to slip there’s only one message for this paper, all mine and passed through time.

asking a question that shouldn’t be asked – has anyone been witness? curse to break, hid from rage, too good at hiding, invisible cloak. too good at hiding, spell to be broke.

staring into nothing muttering some-something to counter the nothing to try again to try and blend to try and never the never-again.

outstretch paw to waiting claw and waiting caw slip into night under judging eyes and hope to be heard at once and again. song unsung, unsplit tongue.

reflected true and reflections of you, uncolored (covered) masked and detached. you never asked.

braided and fated (still I waited)

calling light in, illuminated.

moon colors (so revealing) what were you meaning?

small child’s song gone on too long

and yet I waited (fated)

still through it all I waited.

ghost of some other’s fortune.

the recording of a fallen star.

if this tongue were loving-crafted i’d summon you from distant blue, mouth ocean-filled and undistilled and only one survives the drowning. carcasses capturing the coast line one seal maggot-eyed blind. voice chasing waves away (this way) over the sky’s unstitched border against all orders and the sun spits salt in counter assault, wringing outcry dry. need to be wrung, eye of the sun, eye to the son. done.

sitting on the wire (expired) scavenger, carcass chaser, dark invader. tail fanned and plans unplanned diaphanous wings (no hands) pecking dumb at the lump sum. even black there’s no going back, one eye recording (hoarding) chorus shuddering from beneath my covering, map and math, there’s no going back. greatest fear (i was never here). never heard and never here.

ghost of some other’s fortune.

the recording of a fallen star.

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Two Crows, 2:36AM (1)

2:36AM

Two crows on the fence, waiting.

They tell me: Listen.

I do.

Listen harder.

Am I dreaming?

No.

Perfect.

Listen.

Fine.

Triple-lock the door.

I peak through the blinds. Two crows on the fence. Still waiting.

Caw.

Do humans turn crow as purgatory, trapped observing the living with their kind-of-a-funny-stories and toddlers tied to harnesses and watch-checking clip-cloppers stomping concrete carpets rolled out to welcome rigamortis? Do crows bring death? DEATH, not scare-the-shit-out-of-movie-goers Tarot Death, where the card is played heavy-rings slow and the actress screams her curlers free before bolting from a candle-farm table glittered with moons and stars to meet piano-to-head closed-casket FIN. Not even real Tarot Death, where the hummus is surprise expired, or a cell phone falls into toilet and spares a happy unemployed the salty sulk of job offer.

And, okay this had better not be the Big Done, I’ve only just stitched the golden eagle to my crest, I’ve only now unrolled my scroll beyond the first few lines to reveal the big a-ha. You creepy trash collectors burdening my bins, what are you waiting for? What are you ready for? What do you know?

Caw.

Will their stink of death render me gothy, prisoner of cliché adolescent silken moon POEtry, liquid black eyeliner streaking white-washed sun starved cheeks, costume coffin bookshelf dark magicians Latin names red and gold print jackets internal juke box Death in June black metal Jay-Z? Different just like everybody else, symbol to the air Ra-Ra, subversive just like everybody else (as above, so below) I’m a pirate I’m a fairy I’m a witch I’m a Tim Burton movie I’m a fucking black stain at the picnic. Look how well we all match at the funeral, parasol stars with corsets clamped. Not a spot of dust on the top hat.

They’re waiting for you, Crows, in the graveyard, by the angel statue that sometimes weeps. They’re waiting for both Thought and Memory. Come as a set, come as you are.

CAW.

Well dammit, shit, for God’s sake, can I still read Rumi with your feathers in my face? Do crows fancy dervishes, whirling God intoxicated holy holy on earthbound playgrounds? Do they fancy Freyja flickers like me, twirling hair feet in air, Loki robbed and revenge plotting, deeper in the well for better sword crafting? Do black eyes seek amber mine as you peak through the blinds, do your feathers want my fingers, have your claws pre-drawn portraits? How did you find me? Did Odin send you? Tell me: how did you find me?

Caw.

They follow me and my bike five miles over the river.

Caw.

They sit on the wire while I wait for the bus, listening to an elderly man with a handlebar moustache (I name him Frank as all old men are Frank) tell stories about Belize and Coast-a-Ree-Kah to an Asian man half-listening between iphone glances. Frank sips coffee from an uncovered mug, like he walked out of the kitchen knowing his status as World’s Greatest Dad needed announcing exactly today. Ha ha ha, sip, ha ha ha. Crows?

Caw (Listen, Descendant of Fenrir.)

Frank lowers his cup and a droplet drips from lip, the concrete BOOM drums awake my hidden fur-lined ear.

(Close your eyes.)

Eyes closed (hear first, look later, it would be too much). Ghosts, nursery rhymes trapped in sidewalk cracks, spirits hobgoblining life from the nearly-living, prism locked reflections two dimensioned in humid air, at once alert to open. Yes. I can hear you.

Holy wow how’s it going she can hear did you notice she could too rah loo skippity skip skip hey she never loved me get me out of hello hi are you still listening ha ha hooray good to –

Caw.

This is not the stuff of bus stops. I should be nude for this amniotic slip and slide, this running up the rabbit hole. Bus arrives  my eyes dart to wire, amber to black, black to amber.

We will follow you. Twenty pairs of two, each two speaking as one. Caw.

At the top of the hill we’ll be waiting. Whisper when you ask of crows. Remember to whisper.

“Ladies first,” Frank gestures to the bus door. World’s Greatest Dad.

Whisper when you ask of crows. We’ll be waiting. Whisper.

Caw.

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