They say

“Don’t let someone else’s fear of flying

keep you from the sky.”

But you clipped my wings

when I was young,

so I guess it doesn’t matter.

They say

“If you love something, let it go.”

But you caged me

and crushed my spirit

and we agree to call it love anyway.

They say,

“Time heals all wounds.”

But I doubt I’ll live long enough

for that.

Shakespeare and the Company:

A kitten, book-smitten,

naps on the second floor and

a lonely typewriter sits there, too,

surrounded by bookshelves,

waiting on Sylvia Beach

or James Joyce

or any of the long-gone friends

to return.

Livraria Lello:

There are no kittens here,

instead, there are swarms of people,

desperate to take a peek at

the most beautiful of all

in the world.

Livraria Bertrand:

A treasure trove of books,

established in 1732.

Now, a mecca for writers, readers,

and dreamers from all over the world.

A foggy morning 
on the Atlantic of deep blue almost black
waves, white caps tangled, undone
a mist rocks the boat, silence, a calm–
the ferry leaving Star Island,
across front Appledore, where a salon existed,
hosted by Celia Thaxter–painter, poet, gardener–
hollyhocks reached the sky, poppies red
sway and bend in Childe Hassam brush strokes–
an American impressionist held hostage now in art museums.
We all know Celia’s friends–Thoreau, Emerson, et al–men–
of course!

I leave thinking about the precise patterns
she painted onto a canvass of delicate white china:
yellow and purple flowers, swirling around vines,
butterflies, their bright sunshine wings stopping to rest 
upon a teacup’s handle, her recollections of life 
far from the mainland, sketches, insights.

swoop of gulls, the lighthouse beacon, the wind 
picks up,  low tide, high tide, starfish,
ochre seed weed, orange lichens cling to boulders,
steady clash of wind weather–

a garden returning year after year after year

It wasn’t the tiny empty whiskey
bottles lying in the grass
nor the bottle caps from cheap beer.
It wasn’t the soaked shirt fished
from the water leaving me wondering
how it left a man’s back.
It wasn’t the plastic in all its forms
nor the auto show above the bank,
Z, Vette, and Shelby hoods erect
as owners worshiped at those alters.
It was the cigarette butts – filtered,
unfiltered – swarming the ground,
covering the carcass of a dying planet.  

Cowboy, red hair cowlick-ruled, breathes air backwards, washes his mind empty.

For the third time tonight
on my drive home through hushed countryside
I thought I saw a UFO…
only to be disappointed yet again 
by an increasingly saddening reality.
The first hulking glowworm 
crawling over the steaming hills
revealed itself to be
a delicate and lovely crescent moon
who helped keep watch for anything out-of-place.
And she found it when some unreasonable adolescent
launched just enough fireworks
to wake both the dead and dead-asleep,
though the disturbances in the sky
caught my eye much more readily
than the phosphorescent belches
of adventurous young spirits.
The last display of awful might
lasted the longest and proved to be
the most magical of them all;
crowns of far-off lightning
lit bushels of nectarines among the clouds,
tracing the outer ears of hiding gods,
and reminding me of all the things that might not belong
I might be the Unidentified Fearful Object 
roaming the countryside next.

if you don’t talk enough your thoughts

turn to grey matter rat kings

if you don’t care enough agony and worry comb

your hair for you

if your iron isn’t high enough it’s not because your

organs always turn to steel knives

God, I hope (I don’t pray) that if I have a wounded wing, and you couldn’t get to me, some bisexuals on a hot girl walk would stop traffic for me. I would hope that I could trust enough to take the step off the curb and waddle my way to you. If it was you, stuck on the island flightless, I wouldn’t take off. I can wait.

The horned moon rises
A Golden Bull
Draped in black lace
The color of candlelight

That’s why knives draw me
I like to be scared
Or I enjoy respect

Something is shreaking
like an old oven pushed across the floor
The metal rubbing it’s self musically
like crickets legs
A violin or accordian

“B.B’s” latched on to calling me “Feral
but its too close to Geraldine Jerryl
Some of the many ways my name has been pronounced

They tell me that water from the center of the earth has been discovered, some plasma that’s also water, and that there’s three times more of it than what we thought there was

What has she killed again
that is making that noise?
It sounds like an illusion
Like the cool air washing over us this evening
The heat has been braining us

And even passing meteors
are lobbing great daytime fireballs
At us.

What information we once held private was
bought and sold

But leaving your phone in your bag at a party
is hippy level rebellion.

Occasionally, a blast of music from The Green Lantern, a corner block perpendicular.

The dead worms have all formed letters and I just keep seeing esses. I earlier mused, that I ought to change my name to Liv Feral. These special letters could be l and f.

It sounds 90s AF
Like two different Googoo Dolls songs

The radios of passing traffic
fold into it like
an alterpiece