a borrowed angel

Passerrines explode from a feather cannon–
an ominous burst more foreboding than a tempest
Endless bits of triangular blue make the sky an abstract puzzle–
coming together or falling apart
Their chattering blankets suffocate my precious morning peace
How do these frenetic creatures hear each other
Does it matter to their tiny process
The starlings remind of a biblical pestilence read about as a child–
invasive species, legged, winged and without conscience
Millions of flapping wings force the trees to sway
How black these birds with their beady little eyes–stolen magician’s opals seeding the sky
Ear-shattering thieves of brightness
To diffuse my peril, I unhook the waking senses
In the empty spaces of my blank, Helen arrives
A borrowed angel
eye-less
ear-less
Quiet now
See her
Hear her
Through dense feathered blinders, she manifests a brilliant blue sky
Flocks enter her sealed cave–
she hears one birdsong above the rest
The plague of starlings brushes low to the ground
Cerulean returns above
The screeching pestilence covers my property
her Speaking hands guide me
her Silent words teach me
to hear a single clear note above the din
to see an emerald ocean above the sea of feathered black
My borrowed angel is a spirit of imagination–
an artist of the senses
I have been both deaf and blind
She has not

Ra

dedicated to Helen Keller

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if I were a beer…

there is a case of beer bottles in my garage. it was a holiday gift. twelve special beers. the best of the best. is what the printed words say right there on the macho pretty box. the best of the best. more than the fantastic four or the magnificent seven–it’s the sublime twelve. I stare down at this charismatic hops box. twelve superb necks holding twelve superior brews. hell, what would I say if I were just one beer. this is twelve. twelve miraculous times someone mixed and poured perfect.

hmm. I said I was going to start this year with writing honestly. I’d have to think long and deep, as long and as deep as those amber necks reaching down to those chilly ales swallowed to warm the senses.

truth is one thing in the flesh, it’s a whole other liquid when brewed into words. let me start chugging here:

I don’t know where my words come from. this unnerves me a bit. it’s like arriving at a familiar place with no recollection of the ride. I don’t know what is going to happen most times I plan to write so I can never really plan anything longer than a short piece. I managed to pen ten manuscripts long ago when my brain was less fragmented, all fantasy blended with some sci-fi, all for the tween market. I don’t think my liquefied brain could pour adult long write. that would be a real challenge for me in my present glass state, though I’ve visited over thirty US states. I am not worldly. Other then crossing into Tijuana on foot back in the ’80s, and staring at bugs in Montreal’s Insectarium, my world travel case is sticker light. I am George Bailey-never left Bedford Falls.

It has taken me until now to learn how to lower the brewery simmer button. no more unnecessary boiling. life’s to short for bubbling over the vat.

if I were beer, I’d belong in a wine bottle. whatever the hell that means.

Fly Lord

Fly Lord

the marrow of his bones

so intense was their passion
he swore
the marrow of his bones rocked
in his bed
streaming across those ship grey sheets
the moonlight
and her body luminous
and imperfect

an asymmetrical face marked with smile lines
before her watch caught on his cuff link
much of his outward life had shifted by
in speeding cherry sports cars
with bouncy passengers who wore stilettos
instead of socks
now he had this woman
who saw him with eyes beyond
what he reflected

those fitted Italian suits pressing on his heart
gave way to the gentle hands now removing them
he fell more in love with those hands each day
as they unlocked his chest turn by turn
softly releasing
the fear and trepidation
confidently protected all these years

he’d been hiding
a beautiful man
whose mind penned introspective thoughts
when no one was looking

five cent pump pencil

five cent pump pencil

bird in a box store

like a bird in a box store
flying above the steel trees
plastic plants in the far back
protected by strange stiff men in long pointed hats
and sickening grins
if you alighted on a nearby polished snowblower
you’d see the gnomes twinkling eyes
maybe a little happiness there
painted in by foreign hands
confused as you are now
there is expanse to fly
bountiful food on the floor
pools of little ponds
temperate climate
infinite grey to ease those once vigilant eyes
but no elegant altitude
no cryptic nimbus
no aqua-blue current 
must the grey below become black
to inspire you beyond
the sliding sheets of smudged glass

born you were to fly
but not in a box store
warblerwas in Lowe’s today and heard the little sparrows on the light fixtures