Icarus and the Timebird

When will I be magic?
I pounce, thrash, punch the air.
No refined sugar suffices.

I climb up and up,
Flaring my ire at the staircase. This is how I have to travel now.
I settle for spitting from the roof of the Shaw building.

I miss those wings. I know they were mine.
Maybe it was centuries ago, maybe it was another life.
But at some point I had them.
I have dreams of thermals and tailwinds
And always wake with knotted shoulders.

I am jealous now.
They were mine.

I glare at the clockworks, its sad, sad chiming.
At noon I was a clever prison break.
At three there was hot wax dribbling over my ribs.
I plunged into the ocean, no fins, no gills.

The irresistible sky beckons, scolds,
As though I could will my vertebrae to open into pinions by thinking,
Transform, transform.
Hollow out my bones and float backwards in time.
Believe me, I would.

Atop the Shaw building
I spy on scuttling people, haunt the rafters
And wait for the time to spring up
Into the ozone.

Masters of the Universes

So

I found a program, when I was
full-of-despairfully
prowling the interwebs

thinking about my f-word
that being
not fuck

which is a delightfully useful
and often attention-grabbing
and perfectly fitting for many situations sort of word

but the other f-word

which I suppose I'll have to say now
since I've taken
all the other
side roads
I
could think

of

stopstallingstopstalling deepbreathandokayhereitis

Future.

I found this thing
while thinking
I love women and stories. That's what I love and what I want to learn about.
Why the fuck
-see there's that puddlewonderful word again-
can't I just get an advanced sort of degree in women and stories?
Blessed be (and also cursed?) the inventor of Google.

Because now I am full steam ahead
roadtrip planning statement writing recommendation scrounging relief sighing
into

wait for it



a little little little place in the northern bit of tennessee
will spit me out in two and a half or so years
with a Masters of Storytelling.

What?

Yes.