I tried to make like Icarus and soar for the sky
but the wind disheveled my hair and the sun burned my eyes.
I’ll just stay here on the ground, then–
at least here there’s no stars to tear down.
They just look like smoldering mothballs on dirty black velvet
so fuck ’em.
Jealousy rears its ugly little head again–
but never too much,
just high enough to take a bleary-eyed look around
and arrogantly mutter curses in a denouncing tone
before promptly drowning its crown in the inviting quicksand
(it’s crippling, but at least it’s consistent).
Jealousy never sticks its neck out far enough
to reach the chopping block, naturally.
“So why do you sit here on the sticky ground when you got yourself such a slick pair of wings there, Ick?”
Well, you see, I got distracted by a gaggle of spy vultures from Tel-Aviv and the next thing I know I’m stuck like a pig on a rickety weathervane somewhere over Providence. It pierced my ugly organ straight through and it took me three days to extricate myself from that fucking roof ornament. But that ain’t the half of it–it turns out that Providence is dry as a lone bottle after an Irish wake. That’ll teach me to fly again! The only problem is I can’t get rid of these god damn wings…
“Have you tried acupuncture?”
No, but I’ve given needles a shot. Or rather they gave me a shot. But alas, those lofty mechanisms are stubbornly resilient. All I can do is sit here and pluck the feathers from them one by one and pray they never grow back. They always do, but at least it’s taking them a tad bit longer to these days. They aren’t as soft or as vibrant or as pure as they used to be, but every time I look at them I still think about that god damn weathervane over Providence. I hope someday that they stop growing back.
“I reckon someday they won’t, Ick. Someday they won’t…”