excerpt from the final poetry mic, Stevens Point, WI, 15 July 2008

...those of you who have been here once or twice will know that I've had this alterior motive, that I'm up here rapping out these votive offerings tryin' to catch the ear of someone who wouldn't give two squirts of piss in the face of this desire to embrace I miss your light.  I miss your holy moment.  I miss your face.  (Elle est l'une seule qui me fait chanter.) and other unworthy verse.  Please, don't go away, it gets much worse.

I have ruthlessness, and hope.  Do I stay?  Do I elope?  I could sit right down and murder my heart imagining a comfortable numbness, or I could ride off to play a new part, and take what once were broken shards and now is powdered glass, and sprinkle this magic dust wide and far in hopes that this will come to pass: that one day, all over this land, every woman and every man will, just like Peter Pan, remember how to fly, and I'll no longer have to ask, "Why, oh why must I?"

I have littered my bed with cliches...
This is a basic assumption by which I live,
though delerium marionettes me on.
For instance, you'll have heard the word "fever" before
but not that I strive for exactness,
and most days am mostly just literal:
The fuming sun-bitch froze my belly
that armpit wind digested me
whispering such influenzal shortcomings as
"BEWARE BIG THUNDER-THUNDER,
who hurls tick storms,"
and how one part of me wants you to realize
the way I am affected by the spell of your eyes
two incredible sunset skies
and the shape of your thighs
and the taste of your sighs
how I could sit and be captured
enraptured long after
the whole worthless world around us dies
but if I yield to this I'd fear a hard goodbye
so what is left for me
but to plagarize:

"Shrouding all the ground around me is this holy crow above me black as holes within a memory blue as our new second sun.  I stick my hand into the shadow pull the pieces from the sand which I attempt to reassemble to see just who I might have been.  I do not recognize the vessel but the eyes seem so familiar, like phosphorescent desert buttons singing one familiar song:

"If you only knew all the love that I found
pull over there's a reason why my soul's unsound--"

See,

some go crazy in love's power,
I am one of those.
if you're looking, you won't find me
waiting by the phone,
but gnawing on rose hips
an writing off bad trips
while all other mystical
bliss dicks flapping they lips
over mismanaged earth ships
I slipped into something
more animalistic
see, some go crazy in love's power
I am one of those.
Make no mistake!  On your behalf
I howl at the moon.

copyright © 2008 Phoenix Stormcrow except quotations from "Third Eye" by Tool and "Garden Grove" by Sublime.