`m`

00/00/1991

the fell soot on her feet festered in cakes
she knew better to go alone into those crags
for his arms towered into a winding cave
that bent at worn tattoos leading into a chest
they warned unintelligibly, “no return”
knocking on the door to the shamans home
until the icebergs molted and flew off’n’away
the lovers of buried miners decided on the axe-
blinded by the sight of the excess death graph
in their county when the axe was made,
they could not tell that the shaman had long gone
(his fortunes were being counted elsewhere)
until the door was shattered into minces
born of this colony, born into blindness
she did not know her skin were feathers
she did not know her voice was lovely
among the lovely voices of her brood
that as she walked into his cave
she was breathing overdoses
coughing from the methane
inhaling monoxide,
she fell into his hollow chest
trusting in his eons
& rotting from within
just as she knew she
was the kin of miners
whom would abandon
such shades at the
sight of their daughters’
plight, they were buried-
there in him was warmth
for a sentinel
with nothing
to guard

00/00/1990

the timing was off
the timing was off and it would never be on
so that when it was 1990, by the balm at 4:44am
the timing was off- so she said to herself at his birth
“he would have come sooner, if the timing was right”
a wretched bellows lent a great sagging gust of humid air
to his first breath, to which his self of years gone by wondered,
if there was anyone born without a cry, a silent one, or if there was a cry
it would be born inside the head and body, screaming forever in vein
his self of years gone by wished this was so, that in the house of spices
and vine long nostalgics, he was the quiet one
it would explain everything: the justification
he was a snake wearing a horses skin
running with a face of another constellation
told to gallop with four legs when his gait was a slither
asked to neigh when he could only stutter a hiss
the first words were, “why?” and then, “what?”
and after that, “mom”
those eyes read caustically, sutured with questions
so that it would be a problem
to be told to neigh, instead hiss a stuttered “why?”,
and then called a back talker
the timing was off, it would never be on
the one who wished a quiet birth hissed,
“why?” writhing from the bellows,
head and body screaming at the vein

00/00/1990

window entry #3

a flood of feathers landed on the tile roof of my neighbors house.

it was a seagull with one leg pinching the roof tiles.

the soot hooded roof in other days was a cadmium brown kissing the grey sliver sky from my window vantage.

there must be something good to eat on the roof because the seagull was pecking at something. i think it was a worm or an ungodly beast that had somehow adapted to living on rooftops.

the seagull was about two feet away from the chimney hood before I looked over to my computer to write about it.

the seagull looked as if it was exactly the same size as the chimney spout except that the seagull could be taller or shorter since it needed to hop to travel on its one foot.

Kyle was playing the piano for a bit. i think he gave up and put on Netflix.

i started playing some music on Spotify and listened to Woodkid, a few showtunes from the Wiz, Little Shop of Horrors, and Avenue Q, all the while thinking about this phenomena of cultural singularity and its implications in contemporary life. i hope to do a puppet show with friends.

i just got out of the shower and am waiting to go to Folklife with Seth and Kyle and i remember now that i forgot to take the dead squirrel out of my backpack.

the seagull is gone now and instead on the lower part of the roof there is a crow.

i think it saw the seagull and thought to do a little investigating to see if there was anything good to eat too.