The Parttime Harpy

A proto-poem

 

On storm scented days, the sky was populated by grey warbirds

their feathers consumed the bright, with lighting and rain for words

On war scented nights, all the stars joined into a sonorous roar

to shatter the million poisonous bits making up its dark core

 

native tongue

With my arms behind my back,

bound with past beliefs and moral

I took pride in this mold of duty.

Safely hugged by those chains,

3T

1) Talk

2) Tears

I am made of ocean breeze and sea spray,

a sliver of eternal mutability at heart,

I’m the erratic riptide on rocks of fire,

numb

is a hotel room I have no memory of

is a layer of discarded skin and dust

is a patched-up-river of cut movement

is my daydream sewed together into

something comprehensible and real

more genuine and true than the actual day