migration(s) │ multo
some fridays can’t decide if they’re hot or cold, solid or gas, widowedor windowless.
some days like fridays i feel like saying i’m sorry. there are fridaysthat try to shut
the aortic valve but the aortic valve won’t shut. if i’m in another world,i don’t fuck up
because blind swirling herons stay swirlingly blind. this was beforefriday sang the blues,
before the last magnetism that came before happiness.
beloved departures, forgive my fridays if they are, like a multo[1],capable of flight.
colored sky wild-haired
silhouette of beaks a binary
of titted space postcolonialism
eyes of thought susurrations
>>insert D I A & S P O R E S
blood kilometer feathered time
horizon shared my*grace*shuns
wings in delirium extra sago
still we free multo i
there is no poetry tonight. my evening headache is putting up the wallswhere alphabets
and tiny helicopters skip their shiny aerial extravaganza. my penwrites: ICU.
in critical condition are the words. in need of daemon boosters.i’ll be brief.
he wants you to read this note,
i still remember the way home.
[1] It is aFilipino folkloric term for a ghost.