kuma44

I am sprawled flat out, surrendering to the warring winds. The sky is an empty wasteland, and all the clouds having fled from the battlefield. My eyes close lightly and I can't help but grin at the though of myself here, witnessing these great leviathans at war. At first, the fight seems to be a stalemate, with gusts coming from every direction, striking my exposed face and retreating as they gain no ground. I begin to listen. In between the howls were the smaller cries of  glass soldiers striking out boldly and then  shattering into a thousand pieces that are instantaneously swept away in the gale. There will be crystal mountains m

(after Jane Hirshfield's To Drink) Would you leave me so empty evaporate my soul with your heat and exhaust me -- Like a smooth clay bowl Cleaved apart by gravity's rough hands like a shriveled orchid petals ripped off to grant a foolish wish  no more to hold the dew Like oily blackness diluted by the pallor of dawn Would you incinerate that night? Ravish the whistling cicadas in the grass with flame Make the full moon new and leave me nothing?

I imagine it would be easy to kill myself, Like blowing the tufts from a dandelion. Would my neck snap as easily as that green stem Stupidly sticking out for the world to see To envy and rip apart? And then would my soul float away too Some cosmic sneeze spreading it like a germ?           One part to my hometown, to die again in that shitty backwater                  One part down the rift in the Himalayas , to freeze quietly                           One part into the shrunken iris of your left eye And you'll blink, and wipe away the water Washing out my rude prescreens Escorting the last seed of my soul from your body Would

It was 1932 and the crowds in the streets were made of faceless creatures. Some wore caps, some tattered overcoats, and most lacked laces in their flapping shoes. They were indeed human, but the vacuum of substance in the rest of their world had drawn the life from them. Only withered ghosts remained. Beyond the endless lines they made, for food, for clothing, their was little else of interest in their dying town. Only silent homes filled with silent people, waiting for their fortune to return, and every day sinking more into despair. Yet the hold melancholy had over the town would soon be loosened because of a single salmon flyer, being cr