A reverse harpy. My god.
Oh god. My sides. Send help.
What in the hell.
I miss you toooo, it hurts me
I talk about you all the time, and your pivotal role in my story
I will come down to see you this summer
there is so much I have to tell you.
February the time of life and death
drift as thin sheet breezes, dream intimate when
gripping a binding wind
Apply sound solely; render every scenes worth
snaking a city is sudden when you think
of those who have departed,
In the era of February
Calls from mother
mask the season
… …the silent season
A perfect night in February is bitter
fixed on walking fire
yet saddened, espied grayness on the fields of green
and the lingering appetite
of two faces so handsome
speed cultivation in February
At age 20
A pensive landscape
the fatigued winter descends
silver inch by silver inch
Apprehension near smoking kiosks
the in and out of basements,
rhythmic knocks of slingers accompany
the binding wind
the motif of February
Watching from the frame,
young Ginsburg play
a gate swung open
something private for milieu owls to feast
circle of souls
Haloing is the glimpse
of the seasons secret side
a birth, a kiss
I tuck theses those under childhood beds
wrapped in bows and relic boxes
Affective tones from silent era dramas
high heels are February
with pearls a reminder of spring
its seasonal home the month of February
im appropriating internet culture by posting online
OH GOD THANK YOU
Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird.
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.
The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.
A man and a woman
A man and a woman and a blackbird
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.
Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the blackbird
Crossed it, to and fro.
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.
O thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the blackbird
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.
When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.
At the sight of blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.
He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.
It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar-limbs.
I’m comfortable existing to Vice
Sitting mostly still sweat free on tips, quite
Alone in a quiet room sleepless it
And with panic festered rather ant like
I have lost reception
But now horrors are apparent in my feet
Stepping on trembling hands follicle drop
As tangled knots parallel to myself
Wrapped tightly scarecrow pinned by the wind
my uncomfortable image mirrored
An existing vice for which I cant recall
A birthday present from a very talented friend.