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"feel her body rise as you kiss her mouth among the fields of gold." --sting.

it's a gorgeous line, and a gorgeous image. he wrote the song originally for eva cassidy and, as much as i like her voice and execution of the song better, i still keep sting's version in heavy rotation because of that line.
"Angelus Urbanis."

In the season of bees
and sun and feasibility,
there are moments of still
before the wind sweeps
and wills me off my balcony.
Sit I, watching-deity of inner-city.
My people make mistakes
I see all from above.
Barefoot. Fan in hand.
With closed eyes, the world is buzz
and the world is heat
and the world is scent of dogs in this building.
And of their owners too.

Oh, people below,
I am watching over you.
From above I keep a little one from
the car approaching.
From above grandmother misses
the crack in the street.
From above I see this girl has made
the wrong mistake,
I’ve seen him with another she,
both girls worth so much more.

A horn sounds from this world.
Then from the next.
I have run out of messages,
this mission idleness.
Sunlight is the street singing in waves.
Breeze pours in, diluting its sound.
All is sense and sensation!
All is grit and glory!
Overwhelming vibration and omnipotentency!
The work of winged things!

A coat of yellow and black,
built in sword for battles upcoming.
First from this world.
Then from the next.

On other balconies, other watchers,
in their hearts, but not aloud, they wonder
when we’ll welcome rain.
I hear them all.
And the faces of my people below
slow down, turn up
through the hum of the bees.
And all see me.
my eyes have never looked upon the sun,
no phoebus profile yet imprinted there.
my heart cries out to cold dian alone
to ask for wisdom--teach me not to care!
too many times have i been led astray
toward twinkling stars and drops of dew on fire!
in searching for a spark to light my way
i've turned myself around in blinding gyre.
now, silent, i have reached the lowest well,
close i my eyes to every form of light.
sequestered here within chastity's cell,
i'll only raise my face to void and night.
but there is hidden hope within my soul--
some lazy day my phoebus become bored
and shine his beam into my weary hole
and come to rescue me with golden cord.
until that time may i content to be
mindful of my lightless solit'ry.
My mind is a rent--
a harboring space--
and there intertwined
in the shadows that lay
a memory or two
of my still-younger self
and perhaps I've forgotton
why I've thought to come back.
Can it be I've been singing
all this while,
all this fathom?
Can it be I've been pacing
and wearing thin the floor?
How did I earn this--
my heart that keeps closing,
when I have been given
luck, light and gall?
I remember a time
when I was more frightened
and this brings me comfort
in how far I've come.
I've absorbed things,
I've traveled the maw and I still need
the one thing that stays me
from being myself.

I keep eating away
at the stone that surrounds me
and revealing a girl under mind's heavy lathe--
Yet how much have I learned
when I am remembering
mistakes in my path
and trip over them still?

Will I ever be her?
The she that accepts things?
Will I ever give in
and sew up this hole?
i just spent ten hours on the guthrie stage. and i finally had my wow moment. i'm doing guthrie. rock. on.
however. i also spent ten hours in heels. too tired to go on, i'll archive one of my scritches here.

"Not long now."

You could have had your choice--
Winged Mongerel--
of all the pretty girls,
all the silken cows.
In all the nights of Idiot City
you were the crown
of galleon wit and spoken grin.
My hardest muscle lent
to indecision, depreciation--
and you a champion.
I stood chosen and unchosen,
turned round the wrong way,
upward bent and still unbroken
--a skittish child avoiding the looking glass.
I have learned your languages.
I appreciate your colors.
I see all from afar and backward in time.
My arms are too short,
but my mind is long
and with wings of pigment you bark at me.
I am coming 'round,
feeling about for handholds
to push off from and fall where you are.
I go the the Green--
I leave this misconnection--
even now I make up stories of your wit reception.
I am still chosen
and unchosen--
and your looking glass
is aimed in my direction.
There is nothing for us now but the patience of months
while I await my elastic flight--
I wear wings. I choose these things,
it will be easy.
Not long now.
Don't think too much.
Let be.

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January 2015

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