she lives in the wind's pleasant breath,
              my muse,
in the sea gull's perfect design
              my muse
floats freely, cutting effortlessly through stagnant
                          air, leaving precise trails
                                            of vital refresh
she rests her head on my chest,
           my muse,
while she's sleeping,
                            and her wildest dreams
                                become more real,
                                  her nightmares become food
she swims in children's laughter,
              my muse,
in the melodies of fluttering wings and scented petals,
                            outstretched arms,
                                hugging branches
              my muse
comes to me, a smile
                        breaking through fresh earth
              my muse
lives on the cracked streets of brooklyn,
              my muse
wakes each morning in between
she rests her pounding skull
                       against tired brick walls,
              my muse,
adorning shit-stained cloths
                                      like petticoats
she clings tight to nothing,
              my muse,
and nothing sets her free

and in her freedom,
              she comes to me
                   like pins and
                      needles
she enters my blood
                            stream
                            consciousness

and through her eyes,
              i fly

back   home
Free Williamsburg | 93 Berry Street | Brooklyn, NY 11211
[email protected] | August 2000 | Volume 6


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