Maggie

"I think I might swing all the way up tonight," she remarks to her bruised palms. He overhears and presses her curls into his mouth and begs her not to go. She says its important for her to try and not to keep her still. She likes the wind against her face and and the pump inside her calves.

Maggie slips away to sleep. She finds her solitary swing, takes her seat and lazily rocks back and forth. She meets the breeze...finds the rhythm and kicks back to start. Her feet stretch up and out. Her aching palms grip the cool, silvery chains.

Maggie likes it when the fog rolls in. She can no longer see her toes ahead of her. She doesn't know where the gound and sky meet and her hair has lost it's curl. She mounts higher and higher until she swings the full circle and passes the threshold of her dream.

She awoke by him. He kissed her blue palms and the color melted away. She stayed white from that eve on.

P.S. Moon

I will tell you the story of P.S. Moon:

The Peek-Sneak Moon is a rarely heard of moon phase. It is the time when the moon is just about ready to hibernate for its day or two of darkened rest. She's tired of course, for her eye has been open for days on end. Slowly, slowly, slowly it has been drawing to a close, watching you the whole while, afraid to let you out of her sight. You're so lovely to her and fascinating in your flighty fits of fancy. In a way, she's jealous. Incredible, isn't it? The great body in the heavens is jealous of an ant in the scheme of the sky bodies. But there is an explanation...

She can't dream. You can.

She longs to close her eyes to the world the way you do. That's why she studies you and is so hesitant to close her steady sight. Your dreams are on her mind day and night, lovely or sad. She wants them for herself. So, as her heavy hooded lid hangs lower and lower over her creamy eye she grows more and more hopeful to catch a dream or two during her dark nights. The narrowing sliver becomes keen to peek, desperate to sneak, the slightest of your gift. It is this time that you may feel her frantic tug at your own eyes, for it's her last chance to secure a dream inside her memory - to slumber and wake with it fresh. It's now when you lock eyes. You hear her pleading question, a tiny slipped letter from one body to the other, clearly written, clearly signed:

P.S. Moon.

Cumbersome Bird

The small boy plays fast with his cumbersome bird. They trudge feather deep through amber gravel (though I forget whether the bird was flying or on tallon). Cumbersome Bird, with a heavy heart, scoops stones from their trail and begrudgingly grinds them with her tattered beak. Beside, Small Boy sews pockets for his Cumbersome Bird with a careful finger and tight knit thread. She adorns her feathers with the emerald squares and spits the pulpy rubble into the openings.

Cumbersome Bird weighs heavy after several hours. Her heart lies sodden with bits of stone and soggy saliva. It makes no difference to her whether they push on or stifle their journey, but Small Boy perseveres. He wants no pauses. No stops. Though small, it is he who controls.

Cumbersome Bird dwarfs his figure significantly. She is larger than all existence. She tastes the woes of mankind and eats their struggle. Their congested path is in her mouth, her stomach, her bowels. And yet, she has no commandl. Small Boy flags the path with no regard for weighty Cumbersome Bird. And though I forget so dutifully, I still remember that the boy thought it was all in her best interest. How, when he offers no assistance? His arms are lightweight in their own miniscule skin and bone. Tiny Small Boy owns no experience. His path had been clear from the beginning. Pockets had been made bountifully and given as if they were truly a gift.

Cumbersome Bird is now pressing on a narrow path. There seems no where left to go - nothing left to consume. The pair stand still; their feet press deep into the mud. Small Boy knows nothing of this this new way of walking. His feet sink deeper within the waterlogged earth as he glares at idle Cumbersome Bird. She is little disturbed by this occurance. She starts for only a second and then perks her beak with a righteous peck. Small Boy is in her mouth. She has been tought to taste all life and Small Boy is no exception. His struggle is her delight. His flavor is like no other.

Mumbo Jumbo from the Fly

I see you looking at me, with your two eyes (just two, I might add, is a cheap shot of luck...fuck) glaring me down but I try to seem busy...busy to out...to Fly! with my rat-a-tat-tat buzz scheme.

Don't you judge! You hold your pen like a spire but does it not LEAN?? Threaten to spill and wobble? It does! So you are no better than I, the slam in the glass, in my face! I leave my little mark and I try, try, try. Wing prints stain the glass (though they prefers to swat a breeze....and YOU! prefer to swat me?) and what do you stain? Miss holder of thy sacred pen, recorder of sacred annoyances...but who talks to you? I talk THROUGH you. I get into your INK!

(Haha and it's you who thinks you writes your own grief). Is it not my buzz that furrows your brow? Haha, at least I MAKE noise. Though my barrier is invisible and yours is...variable...I can see THROUGH! I shove and shove and YOU are my jealous fan.

Clever bitch but still no twitch. An itch? Buzz with me, eh?

Written at 17

She stepped off the safety of her time and entered the world. The breeze, once sweet with familiarity, caressed her aura in a different way. The wind now stronger and defined, picked at her like a vulture would pick on a dying animal. It wound through her hair lifting and settling it. She kissed the air, a first kiss and an awkward kiss, timid and quick. It may bite, she thought, its only a test.

She lifted her eyes to the sun and found she could stare at it with open eyes. There was no more squinting, no more looking away. The sun was there and bright for her. She put her hands high in the air and pushed through the breeze, through the hesitant wall, toward her brightness. She felt its warmth on her eyelids and hands and felt it, this time, kiss her. How sweet this kiss was. How right it was to her. She leaned in through the force and kissed back. She felt purity and all she'd want.

She reached toward the sky to hold her kissing ball but no matter how far she stretched and pulled at the gusty air, the sun wouldnt fall in her hand. Why cant I hold you, she pondered. A taste is too little. All around the wind blew, rustling her and her surroundings. She yelled at it for keeping her from the sun. It pushed her to the ground now, restraining her limbs. She fought for her freedom that it wouldnt give. She stared at her love. Help me, she begged. She gazed so hard it began to hurt her eyes. She could no longer eye her beauty.

The wind held her still. She observed with fascination as the skies parted and the sun spiraled beyond her vision, being replaced by the moon and his field of stars. She looked around at how dark it became in her world. The new presence in the sky held new beauty. Much more to offer, she considered. Please, she voiced to her invisible restrainer, let me kiss him. The air flew underneath her and raised her to the moon. She caressed the stars on the way. How nice you will be to me, she said. He smiled and kissed her forehead. Silly girl, he laughed, I am you.

-1999