THE LIGHT AT THE END
of the tunnel is the birth canal,
or a star,
or the birth canal of a star, or a tooth,
or the bowels of an ice snake, or an eye,
or transcendent passage, or hallucination,
almost definitely hallucination, but so isn't
WHEN I CAME TO
I was drowning in leaves,
a vine noose ripping 'round my neck. I broke open
onto the grass. I broke open
again and again,
'til my shell was pudding, and my yolk was dry.
a week I'm lost,
floating spirals through gray planes, an existence of corroding
matter against matter against light against unlight, a carcass of held back
tears and hunger, claws to the wall, scraping
over and over to find
it's only skin.
WHERE EAGLES HAVE BEEN
The golden eagle is the most silent of the prey-birds,
and perhaps that's why it's my favorite,
but maybe it's the gold as well, maybe it's all gold
and all eagles, and all the spaces between their feathers
where the wind sneaks through.
Joe Nicholas is an experimenter and experiencer with work published or forthcoming in The Legendary, Phantom Kangaroo, Star*Line, and other fine magazines. They enjoy wine, felines, puns, perpetual evolution, and all things bizarre. Joe's blogfolio can be found at 8rainCh1ld.tk.