Tortured birds
Cackling over our inconsequentiality
Feathers ruffling warning
To the sensitivest eyes
Whose blinking is like stuttering trumpets
Working for nothing but the pain of labor
Reported a crow from an unlit light spire
Bending black and glistening
Without contempt over a Walmart parking lot
Lots of birds, too many lots
Falling from the gaudy sky
Sighing sweetest curses
Mimicking taciturn mice the way down
To our down laps as we dine outdoors
A confetti of ash and down
Marked the 73 millionth day
Of the daily path of walking talkers
Whose walking turned to ruining
Whose talking turned in time-tramsmuting stealth
To sprouting mechanical flora
From seeds of dreams and guesses
Featherless naked frenzy
Wanted and unwanted miracles
Wondering how wings wonder
Why we never try to fly in earnest
Why we never dispose of trying
And simply leap into flying as insanity leaps
Riddles them in severest perpetuity
Like a wound on the wings unsutured.
Published by Richard Q
A human being-question chasing after both God and nothingness. The internet is a disaster, but our starlessness might teach us something. I welcome our constant experimenting with ourselves with open arms, for ultimately they are attempts of life at living and growing in life. My dwelling is in Key West, while the dwellings of my loves are Indiana, New Mexico, Texas, Massachusetts and Arizona. These spaces are nothing. Love abides and love embraces.
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Love the Dust 