Lovelorn Poet in Vermont: Wounded Bird

1927 Sillouette - Wounded BirdWounded Bird
Missed Connections from Vermont

Little wounded bird, my car it did hurt.
I stopped to see you fluttering, flapping around.
I got a shovel and knocked you from grill
to the ground.

Little red robin, you will not go bobbin.
Your heart I did break and your poor little brain
fell out a floppin.

Such great sadness in your death.
Small and frail; my heart was broken once but beats again to sail, soar, fly above the trees,
like I wish you could be but
-no more.

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Over the summer I struck and killed a very large crow feeding on an animal carcass in the middle of the Massachusetts Turnpike. In all my years of driving, I’ve always found birds to be the best at getting out of the way of oncoming vehicles. When I spotted the bird up ahead, I wasn’t immediately able to switch lanes and assumed that as I approached he’d fly off – but that didn’t happen and I soon heard a soft thump on the front of my car. Needless to say, it was an unsettling experience and one I won’t ever forget. Accidents happen, but perhaps there’s greater attribution to our individual actions and reactions than we’d like to believe.

Lovelorn Poet in Vermont: Wreckless (Into the Fire)

Wreckless (Into the Fire)
Missed Connections from Vermont

wreckless

Wreckless (Into the Fire)

Let’s wreck the walls between us
Smash them with our bodies now
Let them break, our fall to pieces.

My blood throbs the seconds through darkened veins in a countdown
to first impact.
Ours spent years minutely smoldering.

You have the map, you know the eXact location of ground zero.
eXcuses burn away
we have been eXcruciated in cold water too long to believe in heroes.

I am burning the shipwreck for heat in the dark light of the sharp new moon.
I am clenching teeth in the thrill of emerging unkilled.

New disasters beckon on one horizon
Sweet oblivion on another

I gaze instead into the lawless flames
And see the glistering of your eyes, your teeth, your claws.

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Sometime, it’s immensely satisfying to smash a breakable object: a plate against the floor, a glass thrown at a brick wall, wooden keepsakes broken underfoot and thrown into a fire. There’s a rush, an elevated sensation of violent release that feels like a tsunami rushing through our veins. Powerful. Unstoppable. Inevitable. Is it reckless to wreck what stands in our way or is destruction a part of our nature?

Lovelorn Poet in Vermont: My Glimmer is Truly Shallow

Lovelorn Poets Love bully-hill-vineyards

Who’s got your goat?

My Glimmer is Truly Shallow
Missed Connections in Vermont

I missed the boat; he took the goat
as Paris burned and fell.

Oh, my ugly, misshapen, bent-backed boy–
your spine asked me a question
and my body went dumb.
My mind went, “Why,” and “If only,” and “What if?”

Your heart was on fire,
but you you picked up on the truth,
and so you took the goat.

So, I turned back in filmy dress,
to stumble barefoot to the flames–
to spread my candle-wax arms
and melt into the perfect hot.

In the cold shadow of a perfect body,
when the fires are dead,
I sometimes miss my goat.

Won’t you have mercy,
and row back home to shore?
I would have mercy,
and quench your passion with my warmth.

 

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Over the weekend a friend made a very good batch of sangria using the Love My Goat red from Bully Hill vineyards. What Bully Hill may lack in terms of Wine Spectator ratings they certainly make up for in back-story.  In the early 90s I bought a poster of the drawing above during a trip to Bully Hill HQ in Hammondsport, NY and had it framed. I didn’t get a chance to meet the infamous Walter S. Taylor during that trip, but friends had – and said he certainly lived up to his reputation of being crazy in all the right and wrong ways. While enjoying the fruity goodness of my beverage, I wondered aloud why a documentary hadn’t been made of Taylor’s life: his family’s wine-making legacy, the rift that launched Bully Hill, the outrageous legal battles with Coca-Cola over his name, his artwork and horrific accident were all perfect materials for a compelling story. As I set about putting my “goat” theme together for today’s post, I searched to see what Taylor was doing these days – and discovered that he had died in 2001.  ~ During the court case that effectively stripped him of his last name, Taylor was quoted as saying, “So I got a goat and it saved my life. That’s when I decided to laugh at the whole thing, to laugh at life.” Makes for good advice and for a cold, refreshing drink on a hot day. Cheers to you, Walter S. Taylor!

Lovelorn Poet in Vermont: Chaos (Over the Moon)

Chaos (Over the Moon) Missed Connections in Vermont Too much chaos in the world around me. Noise noise and more noise! Sometimes I wish I were deaf, though I would miss music among other things. But for one day to be able to block out the world so I could think straight. That’s the problem, […]

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Missed Connections in Vermont: Missing My Connection

There's no place like home except when the ruby slippers don't fit any more

  Missing My Connection Missed Connections in Vermont There’s no place like home.. There’s no place like home… Damn it Todo..I told you these ruby slippers have lost their luster.. must be getting old.. I’d like to wear that nice pair..those purrty glass ones.. but I think one was left behind in the ghetto.. I […]

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