Leaning on the air
Great wings spread
Out like a quilt
Spread across the bed
Soaring unseen currents
Feeling the unguided medium
Tricking Zephyr to spill his secrets
From white feather peer
Sharp focused golden orbs
Tracking the sheep-spotted slopes below
Groundbound they never look up
Nor dream
They don’t have this ache
Nor This longing
They won’t feel at all
Until the talons pierce flesh
But then it’s already too late


Poetics: Flights of Fancy

Bull’s I

loping along through the brush
looking for lunch (ostensibly. layer 1)
lone wolf tells himself, even largely believes,
he’s running towards. doesn’t need those others.
he’s chasing something, to be sure.

sheep put self aside
smooshed together they stride
for the good of the flock
they’ll agree, and mock
the wolfs hunger, which isn’t about his belly

they are at peace, in a way, wolf and sheep
but me? no. i’m too smart for that
and not dumb enough.

let me imagine a diagram
to simplify complexity.
though it will also complicate simplicity
this is the human balance.

so i take these colored threads in hand
nimble fingers deft, invoke the warp, and the weft
and each shuttle past is a breath
until that’s all i have left

the wolf will lie
the sheep will die

the pyramid becomes a bullseye
my arrow knows and longs for gold
my wolf thinks he holds the bow
my sheep thinks he is the bow
my human thinks he is the arrow
and leaps from the bow
but no


today, 8th june

i wonder what america looks like from out there

from indonesia, tehran, the west bank.  america,

where protests are just one more thing

the sheeple are allowed to do.

a chessboard battle between the inner rows

who don’t know-tice that the upper ranks

not only aren’t watching, they

arent’ even on that board anymore