And they spread across my momentary page with their feet deep in the wet grass and they point their hands in the sky, the rays are always sunset-orange, they stand looking over the field, the river of blood of their forefathers flowing under their ground, and they say and they repeat, someone must endure for the debts of this world to be freed.
How many times have I criticized the metaphor of the bird, when my mother would say how free is she and I’ll put my hand upon my cold forehead, It doesn’t ring right, I tell her, it is a projection into wishful thinking.
It is unruly for you, I tell her, to fly without airports, immigration officers, the office cicadas, the old regular bloated system to color within the lines, the patterned sweat it brings upon your back, the despair of the black and white, dust-colored earth that holds your feet.
I think of the rain– often I wish to sink in earth, in a paradox of feeding back the fertility with a gift of sleep, and perhaps the satisfaction of a life-long debt repaid is the final flying.
Things keep happening O what is new to foretell– scratching his soft beard, Tiresias slips into his twin-bed and dreams of a shepherd in a song of reaping, that is, neither to sow nor to sell; but the snakes soon unravel.
My life lays scattered on my bed, the objects, the body parts, a hand paired with a bow a foot strangling the leg of the bed a hollow-eyed German doll a bastard-colored coffee mug a pillow of some delicate virgin the aged ash in a steel bowl a floral rice cooker a snooping miniature of a black cat–
There was a whistling right after the morning fell off it’s egg shelf and broke in the tundra of life-leaking toothbrush basin, like some rabid dog tearing nail for tooth
My hands with some old mosquito blood caught a hold of this insect and placed it upon the bicycle of a man selling sofa and cushion covers; as a result, it dilapidated it coughed– ousting the vigor of the southern spring and other marooned extravagances like political declarations, love-promises, essence.
In a small monotone my morning paddles with this man, dragged into the sullen of the afternoon, laid with the song of a distant Koel bird, It is now put to rest, put to sweet-sweet sleep.