The porcelain owl has holes in his head
Shake shake; dada and a mouth full of silver cups
“No,” you say
Not even my own corpse is exquisite enough
A hopeful pile of paper minutes spent folding the mind to empty
The oregano is dying
Or maybe not
The brass lantern hangs noble and lightless in the morning air
“Learn the way…” it whispers to the spiders
The spiders do not listen, spinning on, just where they were
The children with sun in their eyes are watching
Faces crinkled like the purchasers of moldy peaches
Metal wings stuck to a white sky
All seen by the witness who lives in the kitchen
Through the doorway Schubert becomes Chopin and Don Quixote masquerades as Shakespeare
I will forever surprise you with the things I do not know
Your hands imagine roses that bleed and bloom from the inside out
I tape them into place behind the golden circles and tiny elephants.
Holes in the head are rampant here.
A woman sits quietly holding seven secrets, each smaller than the last
A man wearing pointy shoes stands in the corner with a lonely flower in his hand
Both are victims of circumstance
Hopeful, sad, nihilistic
Through the glass hang the gardens of winter
Innocent and helpless against the teeth of the doe-eyed hunters
I am learning that I cannot save everything
The birdbath lies on its side
Toppled by the wind
All waits patiently for the boxes to fill and the walls to fall
A lifetime unraveled to build the next
You and I so loved the last
The last is our acorn
I burry it in my safest pocket
It deserves a reverence yet unfound
The most exquisite burial ground
Another end to build
Another greatness to begin
Sometimes when I close my eyes I can see it. Wooden floors running like sunlight from sadness beneath our waking feet.
Walls warm with permanence. The sound of pine needles dropping to the earth and new grass sprouting up beneath their weight. The smell of wet soil without rain. This is the ghost of things undead. This is the place we breathe into, begging for a heartbeat. Other days I am blind. The insides of my eyes forming the black walls of my prison. The fear that this sightlessness has great weight. The desperate building of imperfect corners and mismatched windows. My mind goes off like a firecracker; shooting spark in all directions. Deafening. I try to pick up the pieces, but they burn my hands. The bell tolls and I am left with footprints. Today is neither. Glowing with grey. Riding the newest old dream just behind the wake of the last great hope. Eyes are irrelevant with hands like today.
Taking winged form and vanishing out the glass.
Only a moment and yet it stays.
Planted deep the breath that grows from the empty space.
Some twisting and crawling through the black,
And others vast and total as rainstorms.
Each its worth made clear in hindsight.
No time to catch it.
Only time to walk straight through.
Unknowing of the end or if it will come.
Always knowing that these winged things are the things of devastating wonder.
We dare not choose them;
Ours is the choice to write them down.
Without measure, as into tomorrow, I to you.
Falling through the cracks of once learned order.
Rejoining the place of dead light and dreaming.
Back into the hands of thin whispering crowds,
And into the kingdom of one imperfect circle.
The soft hum again fills my ears as they rub together their anxious legs.
We are one, you and I.
Oft overlooked by the vast all who do not see well enough under these conditions.
Loved by the one or two or three who know.
The knowing all at once sweetened and destroyed by its small stature.
It is more handsome not to know.