flyboy-slim

[flyboy-slim]

A corner has been turned.  Rooster is back. Black, black cups of mocha beans  with dripping midday sweat on skin have met booming speakers on the window sill, strong hot sun on waxy Live Oak leaves, and the breezy shade and favorably-lifted perspective of a large wooden second story deck.  I'm writing again, the ink is flowing and my blood flows faster with it.  I can smell the Albermarle Sound a block down and I'm headed for the Pamlico with sunroof wide and the music unabashedly booming full.  I grin too sincerely, with impunity.  Sprinting. Striding. Surfing. Climbing. Writhing. 

Flying.

The fire is back.

[flyboy-slim]

Here is the most sublime sunset of my life thus far.

[flyboy-slim]

1 minute long.  A candid audio photograph of a moment in my life.  Home is wherever you're in love with life.

[flyboy-slim]

5 days ago, I ran off of a mountain for the first time in my life.  It was incredible.

[flyboy-slim]

Ripped-jeans bouldering, heat not sweltering. Light-pole climbing and night-rhyming with off-beat timing.  I’ll push you, mad in an office chair. Yeah that’s right, everybody’s gonna get their share. Dance hard ‘till four with a pimp chick named Janet, tell her I’m Jackson to rock her planet. Feel her sweat-soaked wardrobe and pray for malfunction, but she tosses her fro and says not for my consumption.  Leave the bar happy with no one-night stand. Wake up, cross Brooklyn by foot and then do it all again.  And I got that swag to dance my heart out alone, not waiting on a girl to throw me a bone.  I’m losing my mind on a Manhattan-view rooftop, I’m heisting a beer and I’m hoisting my way up.  On rust-rotten steelwork looking down is a mind-fuck, but I’ve got courage to spare and a pair of arms that don’t stop.  Throw me a rope and I’ll toss it right back, that’s got nothing to do with my line of attack.  And I’m gonna bring it right up to the crack –

of  dawn cause I stay taught as a bowstring and I don’t give slack.  I got a grip like a vice and my forearms are bulging, scraped and bruised but with veins hard-pulsing.  I’ve never felt so awake and the city never sleeps either, there may be some crime but I don’t need a heater.  Where’s wing-man Gabe? He was here all along, but you gotta lead the pack or either be stuck in a throng. I’ve got a brand new life and I’m not fucking around, I spent the last six years hardly making a sound. But I’m loud and I’m proud now, I’m out from that shroud.  You can try to stare me down but I Won’t. Be. Cowed. I’m all passion and thrashin’, I’m diving I’m dashing.  I’m climbing every rock and tree in Central Park ‘cause when I reach for something I don’t miss my mark.  I’m getting ovations as I scurry up a bare-trunked tree; it’s to the point I’ma start charging a fee.  We met a girl named Eve who went hard at Juliard, sang us a song sans backing and commenced guitar-macking.  On a green grass hill under that April sun, I told her I was Adam and she popped us one.  She played a track that made us want the score, but we had a bus to catch so we said nothing more.

[flyboy-slim]

The Live-In List (Dirge)

Passing Tweetsie on my way home from work.

*

In the Food Lion, low-calorie chicken soup 

cans under tinny lights.

Sick-green avocados and riding-hood bacon

celebrated the day all your shoes moved in.

Can't we pair those together again?

*

The blank space on the floor 

like a good friend's face seen

without glasses,

washed out.

*

Frustratingly,

the smell of my own laundry.

mi colada es su colada

Ha!

*

By the pond, the gazebo we never spent time in

but might have.

The dusk-dark evergreens with delicate lace tips 

like spidery lingerie

leggings ripped wide open,

lingering,

recovered from the trash can.

*

Rainbow polka-dot gift wrap 

on my light-blue chest,

flagship of her left-behinds;

A tawny feather earring, the lonely fore-mast

lacking a mate

and

Demure winter-cabin-smile, framed:

green scarf turned seaweed,

the face-down figurehead drowns.

*

END

[flyboy-slim]

Capillary tendrils hoared in perfect white are, as a rule, common on a ski night.

My hand-written March horoscope:

The freedom you've gained will make you happy, especially when reminded of previous constraints as you watch others still struggling with the very same.

The Vatnajökull glacier in Iceland descends from cloudy heights