words

owl

There was a wise owl named Darrell

Who sipped from many wine barrel

Fly he did try, but all efforts for nigh

‘Cause no matter how wise, there’s only so high

Owls can fly when the moon’s in their eye

kitty

I thought a little ditty

Called for it,

“Kitty, kitty”

But being a cat

It said, “What is that?”

And continued to yawn

On the shelf

I found a chair

And I reeeeeached

But never could breach

The gap between ceiling and floor

Cleverness depleted

I stared at my feet and

Thought, “well, guess sometimes words don’t come when they’re called.”‘

lexical realities

You float in a sea of fog. You grasp the substance, but it escapes the tight seams of your fist with a hiss and a whisper. It scolds and teases, but never simply is. It’s neither hot nor cold, heavy or light. It simply is.

You kick your legs and windmill your arms through the sea-fog. You travel, achingly slow. You see a school of fish; you stop and stare because they have wings. They splash into the distance and are gone. They had wings. Do you? You’re left with a drop on your nose, which falls and plunks into the distance below, echoing into dampened distance.

You try to look at yourself, but your body doesn’t work. It doesn’t want to bend. If you had wings, could you feel them? You don’t know and you forget to think of it.

You hear a sound, rippling through your eardrums and ripping through the sea-fog, leaving slow swirls and lazy spirals in its wake. It beats your chest cavity and claims your heartbeat with urgency. Many more follow. It wrenches on your body – like a jackhammer met a tornado and decided to… do something. Why can you hear that? You don’t know and you forget to think of it.

Wings and sounds – what a crazy sea-fog. You drift this way and that way, across empty wings that don’t have any fish, over rusted bicycles without seats, through rain with no water. How do you know if it’s rain? You don’t know and you forget to think of it.

An inhale tells you that the sea-fog wants to sleep and dream. The exhale tells you that it never can. It tastes like expression textured with tenets. It is slippery, sweet, and overrated – you want to do more than taste. You want to swallow and deconstruct the sea-fog between your teeth, breaking, grinding, until it slips down. Breathing turns labored and your lungs want to sleep and dream. But your wings keep you afloat.

Wait. Do I have wings?

It’s raining again.

Oh, there’s my bike.