Bloom in Winter
i'm fucking depressed--I hate all my damn photos. I'm so uncreative right now and I'm in France for god's sake! I haven't been able to think of a story idea/write a good poem in a year or so, and I can't think of any ideas for photos except for this one great idea that is stuck in my head--but i can't execute the idea until august! I have a notebook right by me and nothing--not a story or a photo, is coming. I don't know what's wrong with me, but i feel so horribly uninspired. And going through the archives, I hate all my photos. There are about three that are worth a glance, truly. The only crap I could come up with was this, during spanish class (because i'm a correspondant, i can do what i want during class)
When you shine light through my bones
close all the doors, turn off the engines of cars
you can see my heart beating, rattling
the bars of my ribs--you can hear it screaming to get out, to leap up my throat,
melt into the silky waves of the soul,
and taste the tops of clouds.
It wants to be ephemereal
and at the same time, as strong as a flashing wing of thunder.
If it could, the little heart that is inside of me
would turn off all its metal inferiors,
the ones that churn filth into the air,
and settle like a vacuum on the skyscrapers. It wants to drink the milky
spit of our machines and fold up with all the black smoke,
to become a bat--it plans to fly away unnoticed into the sky,
a sky that is white and clean. But it is now too heavy to ascend,
and must settle back into its perch:
the dark cave above my stomach.
It ruffles its dirty wings and pushes blood through the tips of my fingers--
I think it is shivering, for
it has drunk the city's filth so I can see the stars more clearly.