Thoughts on Feathers

I like it

When the feathers poke out of the fabric on my pillow.

I pull them out, fluff them, and blow them into the air above my quiet face. This can go on for hours.


The trouble is that I need a belief in something outside myself to make atoms congeal. I need the comfort. I long for the ascent on a chariot of fire.

I prize the rising of my thoughts that float from the grayish mudanity that I paddle through to get to the supermarket and back. All the silver fish blow past me and scowl when I cross their path lost in a daydream. I can’t help but wonder if they have forgotten all about feathers, and the way they float.



What is the use in blood and marrow, when they can turn upon themselves, and send my granddad into the black water?


Why do I bother to exist?

For the world has no outlet that I can plug into. My heart’s phallus goes unmatched and lonely most days. I can’t seem to connect and the silver fishes are too busy having fake orgasms.

I walk into a park designed by a dead, white man. I find a tree and slide my knife into it until it bleeds sweet sap all over my hands. I kiss it and apologize. This will be the last time.