Nails in Flight

okay, so this is a poem that is more like I wrote in college, much more streamy of consciousness.  Just throwing it out there, like a sex tape.

Nails in Flight

Nail hammered half out wall; sprouts silver wings collapse to flight, no hole wounds the

sheetrock. Is it a winged dart: no the wings just look so slick piercing down by little sides.

I’ll tell them you’re drunk: nails can’t fly across the room alone. They will find a nail in the wall

that’s all there is, or moth dazed by mesmerized lights, a butterfly midnight. Your eyes possessed

by

the spirits and ice knocking against them before glass. Ice melts slow in streams, cold water

bleeds dyes the cups with invisible ink. New nails growing across the room in

numbers melted metal not mined from the earth where are we. They slope off from walls more

like spiders, not like flies. Pop the air above me with an open hand: I paint red my silver bullet

stash

like rose petaled darts wing it across toward targets. My silver bullets red rose petal nipples

flushed peach. Lead laced candies for the wolves who lick the back of their skulls for the cherry

juice

and the lunacy of growing a pelt in five minutes, hands like fanged oven mits, gleam swimming

below paintbrushed ocean reds: you’re waging a war with superstitions. Gleam lurks under

dumb of light, deaf of whistling zag crossed space, pegged walls.

Depends on the wind: direction directs how these maps project their objects: traject unknown:

watch your spit warble in gusts the wind, a pendulum of unlike mercury: it cries in nothing

puddles, prophetic ooze dries on the floor or the backwash at night’s end.

by Angie T. Jeffreys May 2012