The metaphor of the bird

Image result for Lorena Pugh Surreal Oil Painting of Sheet on Clothesline in the Country
Lorena Pugh Surreal Oil Painting of Sheet on Clothesline in the Country

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.

Fourteen things that will completely change your life

Oh I’m sorry I cannot be of any help
I am pulling off an availability bias, my dear restless person,
A click-bait and we are in the keenest intestines of the search engine now,
Should I stay or should I go?
—Sunshine Posters, Good synonyms for Happy—
I wish you could be happy, because I am not
I wish I was in the woods, a child with Red-Riding hood
And I bled away the day I knew I won’t be set free
in the fourth shelf of the Fiction Rack.
—Ideas related to the flower pot sitting on my senior’s cabin—
Do you know how utterly boring this is?
You selfish ogling monster.
Know thyself. Yourself.
—Next up, fourteen ways to win a poetry contest!—

100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

The Savior

100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

{Alternatively titled: Bedtime stories}

Image result for it will be not death, but a dream
It will be not death, but a dream by 
Victoriia Kharchenko

You have been full of dread,
it has been your primal function;
“dormant” it is, they tell you,
now, why don’t you excuse their civilized lies.

Fear is a drive to sleep,
an urge to close your eyes,
it is a leaving
when the cat catches you a death
and you deem no way to survive
in the fumes of a future
where the poems must die
and the man must churn out numbers for the rich.

But you’re not dead 
and sometimes you wish to wake
a masculine fantasy of breaking at your own coffin 
and yet you sleep,
so you might as well leave it to someone else.

Messiahs, Prime Ministers, Presidents
Fascists, Lieutenants, Gurus,
Nymphs, Princes, Lovers,
Often just people who carry you 
while you sleep.

Abandoned Planet

Pack me up in a suitcase

I can’t stand standing still


But you see, it is because we went off to this faraway place

Where these curious people plug themselves to white boards,

And are always sleeping

Into small cold suitcases.


A warm breeze flows along the twilight moon

And the streets gleam with fresh-rain floods

The crackling fires of passion is burning away the town

But people find it clumsy to wake up.


So I am a lone traveller

Wondering the tales they spin inside the boxes

Are they travelling to Jupiter,

Or perhaps a neighbouring barn?



What is it?

A river flowing above my ears

My eyes

My nose

And suppose I am too to travel by suitcases.


Pack me up in a suitcase

I can’t stand standing still.