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feather

my candle is burning to its end and the wax has spilled over the lists that i've made to save myself from dreaming. and this pen is too messy and my life is too messy and the genuine chaos of my existence spills from me the way i wake up in the middle of my visionary r.e.m. drowning in my own overheated pool of utter exhaustion.

and i remember the way the woods smell and how the hundred year old spruce sang to me as she lay down to sleep finally and poetically on our two gas guzzling vehicles.

and my very own personal venus loves to laugh at the ways i shrink, corner, clothe, swear off, must stop. while the elders are circling in the old tribal dance our eyes reel with the pulse and the fire.

and i love the cruelty of it and i cherish the real. the blood and the viscera and the broken machine that is human confusion and anger and terror and blood curdling love smear across my stomach, my thigh, the air.

blood moth fly into the the flames where there should have been moonlight as i watch their small death gritting my teeth. and sighing.

the way darkness touches nakedness so many little breaths wet flinging hair. for once i am the artist and you are the poet and we forget to drop our breadcrumbs in the forest and we run without regard for all the ways we sold our children short.

my muse is laughing and yours may crack a smile but they remember not to forget us and we fall together to the ends of our beginning from the storm to only breathing. from flight to only softly touching. be sure my soul hasn't yet left the skin.

now you are off to your always dreamless sleep and i am nursing a candle with my sleepless dreams. golden brown of my sometimes scottish hair and small hands in a field far away from the sun but still drenched in it. blue temple onion dome of the Russian Orthodox church. how those gold stars flaked and sparkled and fell away.

like the yellow grass seed i blew from my palm wishing some day i might be beautiful.

1:32 a.m. - 2004-10-11
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