Friday, July 31, 2015

The Trail of Broken Wings

 Those Trickster Ravens
—Poems and Photos by Cynthia Linville, Sacramento


        Death is not a foe, but an inevitable adventure.
                                          —Sir Oliver Lodge

Welcome to wherever you are in the corridors of night.

Let me give you an early warning
tell you how to start the last flight
show you the girl with the spider knife
take back your black and blue fortune.

Here’s an inheritance disclaimer:
we cannot see God’s silver.
Here’s a little tax and legal for the Irish rebel:
the luckiest man alive will soon be one of us.

Let me take you to the Wonder Garden
to the green road on the move.
Just follow the trail of broken wings.
Think of it as a little adventure.

 St. Muerte


That moment I almost pushed you off the cliff
ten thousand butterflies escaped
from the wound in my side,
yet now that you are actually dying
I am unsettled by a strange sadness—
more purple than maroon—
as if someone has stolen the best cards
from my Tarot deck.
Everyone needs clouds on the ceiling.

* * *

Everyone needs clouds on the ceiling
to capture that strange sadness—
more purple than maroon
like the wound in my side.
Someone has stolen that moment
I almost pushed you off the cliff
like The Fool in my Tarot deck.
Now that you are actually dying
the butterflies can’t escape.

* * *

Ten thousand butterflies escape over the cliff
like The Fool in my Tarot deck.
Now your dying reopens
the wound in my side—
unsettling me with a strange sadness.
Someone has stolen my best cards,
has left the purple and taken the maroon.
Now I have to push you
into the clouds on my ceiling.

 Ceiling Detail, Crest Theater


He came here to be shaken up
came to escape easy mouths talking.

She could almost taste
the ember and ash of his last bonfire.

I am Queen of this cloud
she said, sporting a tiara of metallic flames.

Together they waited for the storm that never came,
stockpiling poison arrows.

Together they grew bored
waiting for an imaginary war

until they evaporated layer by layer,
receding into someone else’s dreams.



The hermit crab of my heart
promises nothing.

There you sit—
eating grievances for breakfast.

I prefer to eat life with a
plastic-Easter-egg-colored spoon.

How soon until you become past tense?

Your face—a mirror reflecting cloudy skies
a hint of desperation around the eyes.

You are burning yourself into ash
accompanied by litany of thunder and rain
a whiff of sulfur
a match blown out.

These are familiar dramas—

    * * *
Predictable desperation
burning itself into ash
eating grievances for breakfast—
you promise nothing.

The hermit crab of my heart
detects a whiff of sulfur
prefers to eat life
rather than death.

There you sit—
a match blown out
by thunder and rain
your face a mirror reflecting cloudy skies.

These are plastic-Easter-egg colored dramas—

How soon until we become past tense?

    * * *

How soon until you become past tense
eating your grievances for breakfast?

There you sit—
promising nothing
burning yourself into ash.

These are familiar dramas.

I prefer to eat life without
the blown-out matches
free from the stench of sulfur.

I prefer to lap up thunder and rain
with a plastic-Easter-egg colored spoon.

Your face mirrors desperation—
my hermit-crab heart
is unpredictable.


Today’s LittleNip:


The alligator under my bed is
growing fat on my misery.

In my dark, secret heart
I have a nosebleed.

This is too much crazy
even for me.



—Medusa, thanking Cynthia Linville for today's fine breakfast as we celebrate tonight's blue moon! See