Taking Aim

Spray-painted : Greed

Breakfast

Breakfast of BKLYN champions.

Construction Crew

                                     

                       there was enough space to leave room for my curiosity.

a gust of wind has angled the gates; while Our flag does not wave; our Brooklyn soil shifts.

a boy steps toward his world:  Construction Ahead.  Where is his hard-hat?  The future is a risk.

Graffiti Gravitas

                                 Somerville, Massachusetts.  Ride Safely.
                                                                         Helmets aren't optional.

Bike Occupation

Q line en route to Manhattan.  Weekend.

Occupying Brooklyn

Shot dead

Pistol to the head

Etched

sketched

Saw it first

in a book.

 Remember them?

Battle hymn of the Republic

marching

patriots

patriotism

parading

 ‘round

Some, cloaked in Christianity

others cling to Talmudic takes

Allah is one mentality.

Beyond the heroine’s grave

The hero’s heart

Our true majesty

Returning, I remembered

that

wanting

wasn’t necessarily

a measure of greed

And helped myself

to humankind’s

infinite knowing

and peaceful

Truth

Strength and courage

my sister

brother

Be brave.

Godspeed.

 Freedom saves.

A bird's life.

Life changes fast.

Life changes in the instant.  [Joan Didion: The Year of Magical Thinking]

So too, a bird’s trajectory; its intended destination —what we humans know and define as ETA [estimated time of arrival].

We are quite accustomed; reconciled to knowing when —except when we are pulled away from the predictable gamesmanship of our mornings — Bright and clear; translucent as toast.

In that moment of “change” I maneuvered the melting butter on a piece of 12-grain with a New West knife; poured a calorie conscious concoction of Florida’s Natural and Simply Grapefruit; bowed my head to give thanks for all that was before me when the storm door’s THUD  interrupted my flow.

Without hesitation’s perilous possibility, I rushed to the source of the sound and found the bird — sideways —clawed feet exposed; breathing —in what appeared to be a panicked rhythm.

My heartbeat quickened; remembering a lesson from summering lakeside in Pennsylvania:  “Never pick up a bird without a barrier between your skin and its feathers.” 

With a cocktail napkin I turned the bird upright.  Motionless, save for the evidence it supplied of still being alive —chest pounding. 

“C’mon now — you’re alright.  Get your bearings; then fly,” I said, hopefully; prayerfully.

More than ten minutes but fewer than fifteen is how long the bird needed to regain its composure.  I went to the refrigerator thinking it required some bread [for strength].   When I returned to serve it some breakfast; it was gone.

The Ambition Bird [excerpts][Anne Sexton]

The bird wants to be dropped

From a high place like Tallahatchie Bridge.

He wants to fly into the hand of Michelangelo

And come out painted on a ceiling.

He wants to take bread and wine

And bring forth a man happily floating in the Carribean.

He wants to take leave among strangers

Passing out bits of his heart like hors d’oeuvres.