Your hair, and what we found in it

it was shorter, before.

now, it's long, and worn up,

in a tight bun,

or down, 

across your shoulders.

and only when you're sleeping,

yr back turned,

and only when it's impossibly quiet,

and only if you move,

slowly,

and reach, 

gently,

only then,

your fingers reaching deep inside,

will you find:

a clutch of friendly snakes,

7 tiny dinosaurs speaking french,

an explosion of pastel balloons,

each balloon tied to a string 

of spun sugar. 

Rainbows. 

Seven single hairs,

More silver than gray,

Each cross-section of which

Contains 29 years of 

technicolor yesterday's,

Woven, tight, in a bird's nest,

And inside,

Six robin's eggs,

Each opening infinitely

Like so many nesting dolls. 

A pot of candied gold. 

24 dreams of spectacular tomorrows. 

Buckets and buckets

Of brimming promise. 

Old cameras,

Rusty nails & 

Broken flashbulbs. 

2 dollars, 63 cents

(in Icelandic kronor).

A real, live jackelope;

a pint jar of powdered

(sustainably harvested) narwhal tusk. 

And a million brilliant tomorrows,

Bundled neatly and ready to open,

As needed, some day when it's raining,

And the sun needs you. 

Your house in the trees

You live in bird houses, now;

I visit you there,

these late summer nights,

in the heights. 

Brown bags & fire hydrants,

the constant chesty drone,

tiny rooms,

ice blue against the heavy green. 

Are you happier there,

than you were before?

Still,

you're there when I close my eyes at night and open them in the morning and in the dreams, throughout. 

You live in bird houses now. 

I wish you'd fly away. 

You've stained everything,

the things you've ruined. 

I wish you wouldn't, and hope,

someday—you won't. 

When you come down,

from your house in the trees,

and I read to you,

warbly, trembling, finally—

this life, without you. 

You live in birdhouses now,

in the trees, in the thorns. 

Look down. 

There's magic, here,

too. 

It was the wind, that woke us.

It was in the wind that woke us;

in the cold that lingered, 

these months since. 

Not yet gone,

and yet—

it was in the voice of birds,

their bitter song,

those early mornings,

running from memory,

from the reminders,

everywhere, 

and yet,

there was nothing left. 

A chill filled the air,

the rain misted down,

the darkness came,

and yet,

there was something left. 

There had to be. 

Or else, 

"Why?"

Why?

To give again.

to give way—

to lusty abandon.

To chase,

to reach,

to fall short,

again. 

And yet—

this prayer,

these lips,

this swollen tongue. 

Our screams in the void,

never meeting,

never filled. 

Lumps

It's waking up,

the uncomfortable bolus

there, again. 

Swallow, turn it over,

push against tooth and gum. 

Chew and swallow again. 

Choke it down. 

It stays in your throat,

Your chest. 

It stays there, mostly,

rising on occasion,

pushed back throughout,

Until—

There's nothing you can do,

about your dreams. 

Calcify, harden

& swell.  

You wake,

indulge,

chew over,

swallow hard,

again,

and hope it keeps. 

Oxytocin, someday, again.

"It's the dopamine,"

she said. 

And she was right, but more than that—

the shock of seeing his thoughts, reflected. 

Somewhere, behind her eyes,

an inner life that seemed 

familiar. 

That terrified. 

He missed having an other. 

Her smell, her touch—

The electric avenues,

the swelling horns

that seemed to rise

and fall,

with her presence. 

And her radio silence,

since...

The dopamine. 

The dope, I mean. 

The edge of it all,

But—

If was softer, before. 

Softened. 

Immediate.

A dream, or a lie. 

It was a certainty,

made untrue. 

And the question became,

The question became,

The question was—

Could this body possibly be,

       his body?

Could this grow,

and shape, and change?

Or burn up,

or slow fade?

Tear away, 

and break apart. 

This body, your body. 

Our body. 

The impossibility of it all. 

Remembering and forgetting.

Erasing to find. 

Collapse, to rise. 

This mind, your mind.

Our mind. 

Bonnie "Prince" Billy, Columbus Circle, Feb. 7 2013

Ok, so it's been a minute. Here's a new one.


through the gauzy carapace,
framed & broken,
hanging over Columbus,
the passing tails
of taxis, taxis, taxis.
the flash of siren, reflected
above the circle,
the constant flicker of candle light,
three per table,
shimmering smaller circles,
and always the shooting stars, below;
in the middle distance, streetlights.
and further,
still smaller points of yellow,
each apartment randomized
on the horizon,
their tenants unaware of the watchers above.
and watching all of us,
the gold and green orbs,
the triangles of light,
the striking red--
crosshatched, bisecting lines,
everything overlaid.
and the secret space, in a town
that cherishes its secrets,
those hidden spaces over everything.

he sang.
above the cars, above the streets, above the trees
littering the park, below.
above the diners across the mall,
who may
or mayn’t
be admiring
the private wonder
of their own secret space.
he sang.
and behind him, suspended,
reflected, he sang again,
and again, further still,
close enough to almost touch Columbus
just barely, on the plaza,
he sang at last.

the constant rain of lights,
the gauzy specter of a city
returned to, soon enough,
and so much grander,
remembering,
we’d never left.