I am stretching out my wings,
Winging away to the mountain of promise, potential
With every right to hope.
I am taking this shape, you could shape, too.
It’s a saying, or is it musical?
I need to survive the thunderstorms
And be a new rose spewing perfume, blooming...
With every right to hope.
The fires are burning, negotiating
Black veins stuffed with hope
Dreams, angers; a soul
Of undeterred definitions of scope.
No clocks, I know what time it is.
The manure pilled around my bones
One day will become the garden that I ought to be
But in the meantime I put in the work
And dream I will succeed.
I have clenched a coal: a hot October sun in my being.
I carry it in my throat, dry, accumulating pain, hot, burnt.
I want a horizon of water, knowing it would boil me.
A pocket of it might do, maybe moistening me.
I will pour out a steaming pot,
Steeped with smoldering positivity.
I weave constellations — galaxies that think rhapsody —
From memory. The Milky Way blued into the loom
With fainting threads. I burn the stars with my cold breath,
The swooshing, steaming sounds of burnt stones
Immersed in water.
I have found threads of meaning in this existence
And ropes without meaning.
I have opened out these threads. With my mouth
I have tied everything to these threads,
Unthreading the ropes, everything all at once
I incline towards complexity-spaced seriality of life units.
I will be the tallest person on top of the mountain,
The grown-up.
A bird with its river flows,
The bird breaking the sky effortlessly.
The lark’s amplitude, disintensive:
Up and up it feels, it says it is free.
O, ohohoh, I am the lark, ohohoh,
In my intensive disintensiveness,
My brain humming with infrasonic success.
