Crows are the strangest wings. They beat my mind to take off out my skull. Now, it’s a rattled empty cage, but I’m still a Beacon: life’s a hologram behind bars of shadow, veiled by plastic windows: light-waves are what’s in view, collapsing into matter at the moment of observation as if everything I shine is truth. Invisible crows are prisms in a fishbowl, and I’ll trace their turbulence with a light box when the lights chill out—cool down what’s up, it’s the timer that’s baked, I’m just making cookies. They never burn because I tighten my belt to slow the world’s turn and pry the ocean—bucket of runoff—from it’s nail bed, hold the bucket over my head and spill watery blood through the nail holes for a shower. Blessed, but left with a bucket of guts and bone, I make do, carry the bucket on my head that’s pacing, barking, ‘Barfing scarfs! To be auctioned off!’ as they wrap around my neck to winterize, but I’m finally cleaning cage, repressing shattered stage as it’s jagged daggers find their selfless flesh, I’m the rat that’s running in the wheel with wings, never-ending pretending escaping an ending is possible.
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