Fiery Tail Feathers

I am dazed by the flickering glow of this candlelight. I have lit them in broad daylight, or rather, the dim of a cramped living room. One roundly square, clear glass embalmed light green wax candle, with two lit stems, flamed, screaming: surrounded in a valley of use and decay, of glass ever growing the stain of a black tarnish ring, like a fence, encaging hens, or a hostile bird house, pad-locked, within it robins. The root of the flame, that heavenly blue, imitable to Spanish stucco, has made itself the robin’s spine, its fragile wick legs, the only bearing. The flames seize in bobs towards the pool of melted wax; their probably pecking at some dead black insect, an ant, or some grotesque mush of nature, pampered by the last rain; whatever it is, it’s not replenishing, because they keep seizing, the tip the flame bobs and bobs and bobs, over and over again into that melted wax. Nothing is happening, but what looks like a very sad meal, that will never end. I would say those flames have each other, but when they are not binging, they are making stabbing movements with their heads towards one and other. A series in gluttony to a balanced encounter of pessimism and rage. Sometimes one flame turns its back to the other, waving a bright behind, shaking firmly those fiery tail feathers, and their wings forceful: up and down, up and down, struggling to lift the force of gravity, longing to take flight, because what were once puddles have now become a dark dank pool, rising speedily towards the black stain, like a finish line, and soon they will be drowned. Either I blow them out, I put those robins to sleep, or they will surely be drowned, to death.

You Can Close Your Eyes

James Taylor of Fire and Rain: You Can Close Your Eyes

"It won’t be long before another day,
we gonna have a good time.
And no ones going to take that time away,
you can stay as long as you like."

These weeks are moving very quickly. Time is flooding; time is that waterfall, and I in the tumult, am the cliff, immobile and trite, wishing for an earthquake, a meteor, a bolt of lightning, really any surprising force of nature: to stab into me and just blow me apart! Shatter me! Splinter me! You ravage! I need to be bustled, I need to crumble, down and down, and down, with an echo, dispersed out into the sea.

I keep wanting to close my eyes. Could I at least have some cold, cool hands, both of them reaching out to cup my face, blanketing my cheeks, wrists falling at my chin. Could I have those hands so severe, and gentile to let me cry and cry and cry, falling wherever and those muscular woman’s hands, soft and wise—yes a woman, grasping a girl—and, could she lend me, could she tend to me with her lips and kiss me? Lay them on! A tender force of compassion: on my mouth, my forehead my brow my nose, and what through her grasp is revealed of my cheeks. I need to be tended to. I am pleading rock me or embrace me, either way do it with force!