The Grown-Up

He swings
and he swings
and he swings
chubby legs propelling a small body
into the sky
his face illuminated
rosy cheeks and tangled gold hair
and bare feet
with tiny toes
parading through the grasses.

He swings
and he swings
and he swings
and it's over
he steps away from the plate
flings the bat to the ground
a spray of profanities
clouding him with more than disappointment
or melancholy
more like hate.

He swings
and he swings
and he swings
a stray punch finds the wall
which doesn't bruise so easily
and he stalks from that room
that smells of her powders
that is decorated with erotic pictures cut from magazine covers
that is cold
and he swings
and he swings
and he swings.

Explained here


The Sniper

With an arrogant display of humility
   he claims none of the credit
   for the work he has done
giving it all to fate
to the gun
but he loves to pull the trigger.
Evident in the way he cannot refrain.
He plants his feet
as if he belonged
and the adrenaline swells
the I-AM-GOD rush rises passionately, angrily, demanding blood and pouring red hot through the cracks in his careful facade
   jaw clenched - teeth worn to grittle -
   but his hands still do not shake.
He takes his time.
With precision and almost motherly care
he flicks the safety to off.
In a moment of eerie silence
gravity is suspended
and he is alive
for he lives to pull the trigger
although it means someone must die.
It isn't personal.
  just a spray, a spattering of life on the sidewalk.
He relishes the moment of freedom
   but it is just as much a chain.

Explained here


Empty Hands

all of my emotions
pour out of my hands
out of my heart
and transform themselves into
tiny words
fragile inadequacies
that throb painfully
spill their inky blood all over this page
staining it
with every word that was never whispered
and every touch that was never shared
and you are my phantom limb
the touch of your hands
that i never felt
is what is burning my skin now
and i scrub at your stains
with harsh bleach
but you are in my every pore
soaked through
and i can't stop touching your hands
that won't touch me back
and i am losing you.

i am dripping inky blood
and memories
through the cracks between my fingers
and the harder i try
to hold on
the more i realize
with a horrifyingly raw honesty-with-myself
that there is nothing
for my aching fingers
to hold onto

Explained here


Differ. Halt. Imagine.

carrion birds descend
   even they approach the dying
   with halting steps
life from the living
starving beaks exposing
your inky words
that bled into my bones
and stained me.

vicariously now - some would say lesser
   (here I beg to differ, for flying is flying)
my eyes catch
a shard of blue
and my fingers brush eternity
I am finally flying in dozens of pieces
each piece still mine.

scattered remnants of consciousness imagine
   a forever flight
but too broken to grasp the concept
I turn
to simpler things.

   like a silver flash still trapped
        and mine.

inventory is taken
the missing piece is realized
hardly recognizable but it is what it is
a heart
a tin man's heart
indigestible but more importantly
never for anyone but you to take
to devour
to mark with blood red ink
ensure that it could never fly.

wings beat on
through stifling, wavering heat
vultures have no need for hearts
the world spins on
and I am flying
   but still stained.

Explained here


Buffer. Transition. Unity.

I am Kii and I am not a hero, nor a queen, nor a boy on a journey to transition to man, not brave, nor strong, nor beautiful - nothing like anyone you'd want to hear the tale of.  I'm not even a proper storyteller, which is why I'm writing my own words instead of a proper story.  For anyone not sun-blessed and trial-passed, even a girl-child of fourteen, the punishment for speaking the ancient legends is blindness.  To get the attention of the skies and earn my name as a teller of tales, I must tell a story of my own.  No light in the sky would want to hear the history of a brown-eyed sparrow of a girl with large feet and flat cheeks, so I will write my own legends here in this book.  Soon, when the skies and the elders accept my offering of words, I will be preened by elegant hands and dressed in bells and paid to weave spells about bronze scales flashing sunlight though a sullen fog and handsome young men with rings on every finger and age-worn sheepskins tattooed with maps, searching for names of their own, and an ancient treaty forged before any beating heart can remember, that first unity between sky and ground that formed my people.  No one will be able to see my ugliness then.

I am Kii, and words are the buffer between me and the world.

Explained here.


Cling. Murmur. Taken.

It's a murmur that I heard once -
   in the late evening, where the sun kisses the earth
It was crowded.
I cannot remember much more than
   a green striped t-shirt
   clinging to a warm body with sweat.
It was humid.
The ground was pulsing, like we were on another planet
   where gravity moved differently
   and people could dance so fast they were flying.
I almost tasted the sky.
I cannot recall the face
   freckled, maybe
   or just burned from a lot of flying
   up high, where the sun burns brilliantly
   up high so that it soaked into his skin
      his soul.
He lit up the world.
"I am quite taken with the way you dance,"
His voice reminded me of a lullaby.
"Your feet almost never touch the ground.
   would you like me to teach you how to fly?"


Explained here.


Down By The River

There's a pixie creature, down in the river, that could know those sorts of things.  They say she'll come out if you offer her presents.  Of course, the fae know what's really valuable - don't waste your time with silver pieces or little trinkets.  You'll need witch blessed vessels to hold her prizes: a baby's first laugh, a warrior's tattoo, a forgotten tune.  That's the sort of thing she'll take.  You lay your offering on one of those big, flat stones, right on the river's edge, and you wait.  If it's worthy of her, she'll come.
Have you ever seen one of the fae before?  I met that river creature when my first was born moon blessed.  She's all shadows - these big, black eyes with purple bruises underneath, like she's never slept before.  She trembles, almost vibrates, like she's moving so fast your eyes can't keep up.  Everything about her's long too - long, long hair, like willow branches, tangled like the wildest thing you'd ever seen.  Her kind have no need for combs or brushes and the suchlike!  Long legs, long arms, long fingers, long nails.  Every inch of her stained with river mud.  Still, she was the most bewitching thing I'd ever seen.  For all the shadows, she was lit up.  This glow - like the corona of the sun.  Yeah, she'd be telling you what you're looking for.
You see those bluffs there, where the cows are grazing?  Follow that old dirt path down past the well and you'll be able to see the water.  It thins out this close to town, where the women do the laundry and send their gossip out to sea.  If you want to see you you'll have to climb up higher, where the waters runs fast and deep.  There's a lot of old growth - you might have to crawl a bit, to find a private enough spot.  But with that gift, she won't be keeping you waiting long for your answers.

Explained here :)