A Flying Whale

I can barely stand
dreams and wonder pour
they pour and pour out of me like
tide after tide of loud
magnanimous whispers
like a thousand-year-song
still being sung
like an eruption of wings
bursting free from bone

like me
who can barely stand
before this colossal impossibility
like my legs can’t stop shaking
and I think I have forgotten to breathe like

because I am in love
with worlds beyond my own
because I am in love with








The Promise of Act Two

The tree now stands, supported
by rocks and pillars of wood;
did the adventure and I fail
to intersect; had I so nonchalantly
rejected destiny’s calling?–was it
a test, a tentative trial to sift through
the uncaring passerby’s, to locate
its hero? Was there an explosion
of smoke, a ringing of the ears,
a promise of three magical boons?

Was someone’s life changed forever
when it could have been me?

I lower my head, switch songs
on my iPod, and walk past–

It’s just a tree.

Isn’t it?


Clockwork Fairytale

I whisper dust from the withered pages
clasped within metal hinges; this,
is how I exorcise fear—what I gather
from the leather cover, strewn with
clockwork and untold adventures,
is purity, mechanical dreams
powered by bearings and clutches,
and as I open the book, I stare
into the ghostly gleam of the fairy’s eye,
and fall for the wild emerald pulses
that fill the depths of my empty soul