Fair Flying

Slow, Low, Morose. A rose will not keep me afloat. I’m drowning in the undertow. A lotus will not save me from the depths of my own head. Anxiety is the anchor, dragging my aching heart lower and lower, until all I feel is somber. Slow. Below, these feelings are mysteries to me. I can’t label them individually; they have become one, fastened by past visions. Cramped, crushed, christened by ice, my body is oblivion.

There’s fire in my abdomen, fueling the agony, that nauseous hunger, the same dissatisfaction that boils in bellies of dragons. Smooth smoke billows upward to flow through my mouth, But my mouth is closed; there is no escape. Instead, Plumes of brassy brume ascend into my head, behind my eyes, where they burn every gland, singe every neuron, char every thought. There’s oil in my lungs, heavy heaps of sludge, hindering my breathing, leaking into everything I touch, see, hear, feel, taste. My tongue is coated in the stuff, slippery and numb. (Every time I pick up a pen, oil seeps to the surface of my skin, soiling paper and foiling all my plans to create a chasm of words, a safe place to rest my head. These words are dead. Drenched in gasoline, it seems they’re better off burning from beginning to end.) Eventually, I’ll grow scales and a tail. My tongue will be accustomed to oil and flame; my heart will pump nothing but gasoline. I’ll be a demon so sl...

Young bodies bear young minds, and that gives us strength.  Our slippery tongues tell old secrets someone else sealed long ago.  Giddy giggles replace our worries and our fingers find fables in memory. Love isn't a life sentence; it's a sentence about life.  We were made for this, the stuff that fills your lungs with bliss.  Oxygen is an oxymoron; science means nothing.  How can you explain emotion? It flows in and out.  Rainwater in drought, welcomed by us,  embraced by young bodies.  (Your face is all I need to see when I wake up to know God is alive;  when I fall asleep, I know I'll breathe if you're breathing too.)  Look at these souls; they're magnificent mages who've aged past their time,  encased in young bodies and young minds. Erasing old dreams, replacing them with new ones.  Our generation is regenerating.

You Are a rainy afternoon, heavy and warm. Your droplets are diamonds, decorating my reality, blinding beauty. The weight of you Is exquisite. Fixated, you stand over me, sprinkling gems into my mouth and cleansing me. (There's purity in the dirtiest earth.) In the flightless bird that roams below, I feel the swell of your shadow. You Are dry ground, steady stone to walk around, piles of pumice and globs of granite, feeding fantasy with slate. Fire feasts on deserts and waste, but You Are delicate flesh for me to taste. Leaves sweep up delicacies, delicious diamonds you've left behind, but You Are more than that. Wind waltzes on walls of concrete, but you Are found in the ground below streets, underneath society's belly. You Are everything.

Dear God, Please let them rest when they pass over Your chest And let us remember them as whole. Give me strength to fight this war Not with weapons, but with words. Open my heart. Erase this impression; leave freshened flesh behind. Feed me light, lie upon my soul, strengthen me, So that I may protect the unprotected, Fight for the unfree, provoke positive energy, ignite the spark inside me, Turn erosion to devotion. Please , Lord. This world is a funnel; I am the liquid You pour.

When the bass replaces your heartbeat, Breathe deep and let go Of every boundary you’ve ever built, Of all solitude inside your soul And watch your thoughts turn to gold. Every time they sing, inhale; Displace the oxygen with light. I’m not perfect but I can carry a tune, And knowing you, You’ll help me carry it home.

  Venice is paradise in summer: Lovers lay in gondolas under a lemon sun, sprawling on top of embroidered pillows and celestial dreams. Stress undresses itself on the boardwalk, leaving nothing but relaxed Venetians, who know better than to mask nature’s path. Domenica Rosa, you were there once, weren’t you? As a child, perhaps, exploring the damp stones with your violet eyes and young bones. And were you delighted? Or perhaps, like me, you kept your soul at home, safe and sound from wet ground and deep inside a catacomb carved by kitchen knives. Even so, Domenica, dear grandmother goddess of stars, stripes and pizzelles, listen to me. Hear my voice and embrace me again, for I must learn how to be as you once were: A mother weathered well for loving, a lover lost but never abandoned, a woman like Auntie Mame, with a tasteful tongue for storytelling, wrapped in nostalgia.