|Here I Go, Swinging Low/Bye, Bye Blackbird...Bye, Bye.|
Decided? Not sure. But I want to tell those blackbirds bye-bye. These last months, especially August, my birthday month, I can jokingly say, have provided me with some priceless writing material. However, right now, the material doesn't seem worth the cost of the moment--which is blackbirds flying riot in my heart. They want out? I'm again unsure. They peck and flurry and fly at the blue-red muscle and haven't escaped. Maybe they like it in there, the racing. Pump, pump, pump. Punch, punch, punch with soft small heads, almost like baby kicks, almost like babies, unsure if they want to burst into the air of this grey, sunshiny, complicated, impermanent world of sun and sky, rock and stone, harmony and discord, trees of sorrow and a sunrise's uncomplicated hope. I guess, right now, I'm not too certain either, that I want them out, entirely. Oh, but my heart seems to scar, first from bloody punctures. It seems to open to veins traveling this way and that, across muscle, bone, nerves, spine. A little too much room for the allowance for this fist-sized source of lifeblood to burst entirely apart. So. I'm looking for the courage, to, as that gorgeous song says so joyously..."Oh pack up all my care and woe/Here I go/Swinging Low/Bye, By Blackbird/Bye Bye..."