And through it all, seasons famished or full, my dear Scarlet, you remain. Sprightly and apparent always your heart cut and pushed forward. From window view, it hung bent below your left breast just right of your thoughts. Like sweetened licorice its flavor speaks unspoilt, like restorative puree with a belly warming taste; You exist to remind me to hemorrhage openly, never to waste.
Your skin, bright as blossomed truth and soaked in the hue of amorous wine. You fly amongst a quartet of colors while clearing a contemplative space for creation to take place.
Playful yet quaint, Isolated through gossamer clouds, Scarlet sips most from the moment, As near to the sun past flesh permits. I watch you and want to drinking from the vein of your thoughts.
Born from dribbled embers You pull from the blood of the earth You drink romanced tears while cloaked in heat; Time, you do not twaddle with as though deaths door is nigh. In you Scarlet, there are no remains, only, everything and nothing is left unturned to ask why.
Through Scarlet birds I am reminded of all that is life; electric love wailing about in windy theatrics, perpetually pouring itself into inhaling ventricles, dying for the filling.
It pecked upon the twigs sloshed inside a pond of warm blooded mud just between a briars patch.
Through the rose window and beyond the rumpled Victorian curtain, my eyes were fixed;
Upon this bird, adorned in a black feather coat and emerald eyes, was calm tranquility, as it slowly tugged, no, merely kissed the twig, in hopes of resurrecting it from the dampness of yesterday’s rain.
And nearby a tree guarded this Rusty Blackbird from rays of light and the wind, from slight of sound.
Transfixed I was in the facile movement of nature, symphonically conducted by an invisible maestro.
Finally, after minutes of bearing witness to this dance, I saw the mud birth not one, but a string of twigs bound to each other, like the pearls upon my mother’s neck.
Delighted, or seemingly so, the blackbird dragged, collected and flew away;
And as I stood, weighted in a lachrymose farewell, a preponderance of thoughts pecked at the pool of mud gathered in a frozen place inside my heart.
Only, where was my maestro and does he know my name?
So I sat and took to ink and paper my plight.
And while heavy in eyes, I wrote this, blotted in the vanity of self-pity and below the breast, where forlorn feelings often linger without a tree to shade or wind to silence;
In hopes that I too, will be like the Rusty Blackbird, drenched in pined watchfulness from a distant window, with a pile of twigs at my leisure, in perfect time, as I too, will collect and fly away, leaving it all behind.
Scattered trees whose nails are painted in rose buds and thorns Waving inside the lofty breath of rushed and waited wind. Quiet, its weathered lids, canopies above your quick-flirting eyes.
And you, You cannot woo it, even should you try.
For it is the wild that drowns unmerciful structures. It doe not speak through electrical wires and erect thumbs; Nor does deal in self-devouring gold. Crowned in the mirth of a quintessential performance, It’s self-invigorated
As the rivers do not mind you, or me. Above we see mere clutter, but below, Below its all one grand parade. Organized, processions of apple roots, warm clay and leaves, as emerald as eyes, journeying to drink beneath sun-bathing water lilies. This rivers skin, reflective and teary eyed, like bottled wine drunk on light, it absorbs EVERYTHING.
And this, THIS is my wilderness!
Mad, its barks reveals its pouting veins buried beneath wrinkled moss. Its ceremonial quirks, and exiled sounds, They twirl and turn and take me. Somehow transforming corrosive syllables into brilliant, soundless, swishing waves.
Here, one has not a choice but to listen & behave.
“And in the beginning, life, like shattered shells splintering the solitude of a slumbering tounge, it slit, spilt and fertilized nebulous dreams.
And just like that and oh so suddenly, with the wind against my teeth I was born.
Slapped, belligerent and bear chested Heart raged & reclined against varnished rubber ribs, clinging to the water in which it lived.
Vertiginous light, truely naked and all devouring sound, you’ve resurrected me from vapor, liquid to one solid mound;
And here now, I am now here a life.
And you, oh so solid feeling pain?
“Finally free, unencumbered light. It was a seed in a planted tree that created me.”
Oh sweet, apple of my eye, geometric stills, I cannot see where they truly lie.
Pathological movement nailed to growth, Tormenting and ticking this sculpted sands bleeding beats, doomed to a moral code, an oath of good deeds.
And at the entrance to mortality, a chair of choice soaked in the blood of everything I will come to love, your voice.
And yet still, I am but a visitor, a pilgrim crossing carnivorous rivers, moving to keep solitary cells in their proper jails, wanting to meet my home in the space where whispers reside, hoping for the fruit of our labor, that we both bit, to bear our bonded bones before we are a drift.
And so here I am, Frankensteins monster, cultivating understanding, adapting to longevity, bedazzled by the questions that come from first bites, disheartened by mechanized beings and forever searching for Adam in my dreams.”
Vertiginous light, truely naked and all devouring sound, you’ve resurrected me from vapor, liquid to one solid mound;
