Wednesday, January 20, 2010


Small savage moments of cells dividing and digging through lost and found
find a soul that you recognize as belonging.

Bravest of all human quality is hope.
Bukowski's mother smiles
being knocked down, goldfish dying.
I agree.

Time to let the sleeping raven top
open wings,
shake the dusty rug of secrets off its back
like dancing
carrying the message out into the green world.

I haven't been sleeping,
channeling Tiresias
sight blindness,
comforting duality
preferring song-birds to ceaseless chatter.

winged things escape the burden of rational thought
My heart is like Franny's
wish, need, gratitude, platitude
ceaselessly meets the ancestors,
through veins, heartbeat, breath and longing.
small St. Francis refuge
communing with woods, wings, always...

Ironic saint,
drawn mystical.
candle, window, open sky, beating wings, song
trance's daydream...
more than touch and feel.

my very own bluebird can never find quiet and I'm happy...

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