The Crows at Dawn

They caw at dawn, 

Alarming me horribly from my much-needed slumber, 

Two crows impatiently taking turns screaming,  

Crying at the seeds of day and nothingness. 

What is it they demand? 

And what makes them think I care so much? 

Why do they want me to care?  

Why do they demand it, and only now in my fragile state of paralysis? 

 

Crows at dawn . . .  

Why must it be? 

What for the existence of these obnoxious, impertinent, relentless, horrid cries? 

And at the worst time to hear them. 

And so demanding! 

They demand to be heard these old woman’s demons, 

Harbingers and revelers of gloom and decay, 

Squawking madly at this ungodly hour.  

 

But why at dawn?  

And so fervently?! 

Why the greyer, wetter and gloomier it is, do they insist to add or cheer on? 

Is this their natural joy? 

Or do they only despise me so? 

For I know . . . that if I were deaf, they would not crow. 

 

So these two bastard-crows at dawn, 

They wish so anxiously to be the ones to welcome me before my time into the day, 

And for this, I cannot forgive them, 

And for this, they are my sworn enemies, 

Who so morbidly and viciously taunt me so. 

They even compete with each other in this task! 

But why? 

Why must they so vigorously and ardently epitomize all that is awful, pale and dark in life—in existence, 

All that is exasperatingly wretched and draining? 

O how I loathe them so! 

My nausea! My bane! 

 

And if they do not wish to destroy me in my anti-wakeful hour, perhaps they in fact wish to be me! 

To take all there is of me so they no longer have to be themselves, 

These lovers of not-life, 

These embracers of all that is death. 

 

And here, in case I am too conceited, I will, as open-hearted as I am, generously accept the possibility that it is their enthusiasm and sheer glee in the face of a pallid, dead, damp morning which has them benevolently and naively demand that I experience it as they do. 

Perhaps they demand me to try with all my might with their passion, 

Or perhaps they think I and all are like them already. 

And so they shriek: 

 

“Wake up! Wake up! Please, please wake up! Do not miss this splendid deathly sight of our glory! The glory of a day like this! The beauty! The smells! O how precious and sweet it all is! Hurry, hurry before the morbid sun comes up, and the horrid, bright blue sky. Before there is reason for the others to . . . dare we say it . . . sing! O how sickening, how grotesque, how monstrous, how awful it all will be! So hurry and rise now before it is too late! Come now, and join us, our unknowing, sleepy brother! For we cannot bear you missing all this! Our conscience would grieve us so, can’t you see that? You ignorant, sleepy, morbid fool. Wake up! Get up NOW! We ORDER you to get up!” 

 

Thus they frantically and incorrigibly scream at such a daybreak, 

And thus I cannot reach them. 

For who could ever reach them, or even dare to try? 

Who could ever save them, or us from their wicked cries? 

The crows at dawn. 

08/02/08

Thunder, My Dear

Thunder, my dear, roar with me tonight;
Roar with me every night.
Wherever you are, I wish to be,
For you enhance the warmth within me.
My heart is aching for so much which I am ready to give,
So full am I and you,
Let us roar together, devour together, conquer together.
At this moment you are everything to me as you mercilessly devour all other sounds;
Your rumbling and quaking are my core and demands!
Never have I been so willing to embrace you, O harbinger of the rain.

As blood drips from my eyes, teeth and heart I want so abundantly to be where you are and within warmth,
And if you are not there awaiting me, I know there cannot be warmth!
I picture myself streaming to you with open arms towards long lost water under a precious night sky, as you beckon me, and tears of joy rush down my face,
For I know we are one life and longing, and that you could never reject me, for our kind cannot exist without each other.

It is within nights like these that my future is most obviously affirmed and undeniable.
I encourage the frivolous goblins embedded within the night grass to make their sounds, for they are necessary and true,
And may you, my dear, with your shouts and declarations only empower and invigorate them as you do I!
Yes, tremble and shriek, my darling!
Let nothing stand in our way!
For you echo my calling and strength, my might and my will.
Yes, shake this fragile earth and be my harbinger forever.
There are no secrets between us,
And show my pride in having no ounce for secrecy,
For all I have must bloom and bloom loudly,
Which is why you are music to my ears,
And can only adore you, and thank you for my life.

So roar, Thunder, my dear, my companion and mockery in the face of loneliness,
As nothing can hold us back.
As the green life demand and declare their existence and future,
So do I have a right to . . . so do we.

06/13/08

Childhood's Flying Wishes

As a child I used to yearn to fly, and it would actually grieve me that I could not;
As if by actually gaining such power, I’d find all my arcane heart sought.

For if I could soar and touch the clouds, what difference would it make?
I’d just come back through my bedroom window, and sleep for fatigue’s sake.

Where would I go to if I could do it? Would I just fly around?
I think it would pain me more than life itself, for I’d be alone without a sound.

At first there’d be joy, freedom, grace and peace, but then there’d be the counter-opposite.
For there is no pain greater than reaching the highest heights, and having no one to share or express it.

O, how naïve and frivolous we are as children, imagining life soaring to the moon our delight makes such a fuss!
But now we lay and stare at the moon, and that void stares back at us.

05/19/08