Why Hello There Fortuna
Why hello there Fortuna!
You, future, full of hot air
Hovering outside my door!
What a nice surprise!
You, the giggling dirigible
Punch drunk and lost looking
I know who you are
And why you’ve come.
But it pleases me nonetheless
Look at you, puffed and cheeky
Levitated with bubbly
Yet tethered with ribbon
What am I going to do with you?
No leaden zeppelin, you,
You wear a quicksilver mask
And wink and bob
In the eve’s cold cosplay
Smirking I pass
Crossing this threshold of time
Stepping past M’lady Luck
And dancing in the new day.
Silly girls toy with dandies
And you have tricked me thrice
And this wise old fellow
Falls no longer
For the skirting curtsy
Of the flirting gaze
Oh crestfallen little balloon
Dragging your ribbon in the dust
Why so surprised?
Surely you acknowledge
Your bawdy auld discretions
Who could blame my heed?
For I have seen you skip away
And float with kites
Over my hopes and dreams
And so I lift my glass
To you lilting lassies of glory
But I hold my heart in my hand
My first steps, solo Romeo,
Bittersweet paces of purpose
One two three stepping
This four square squire
No one the wiser than me.
But lo, who is this?
Stripped of her visage
And her ribbon tied in a bow
Miss Fortuna has followed
Her pride has been swallowed
But time will leave no man alone
-Steven Peter McCormick
11:39 am • 14 January 2014
Day 102. Too tired to venture far from bed today, so here’s a picture of my bedside table.
10:54 am • 8 August 2013 • 18,459 notes
Hands of Paul Arma, Cami (1898 - 1975) and Sasha (1895 - 1940) Stone.
Paul Arma. ( 1905 - 1987) Hungarian-French Pianist, Composer, and Ethnomusicologist.
10:54 am • 8 August 2013 • 414 notes
Love is a thin filament stretched tight against the wind
You sing the whispy cry of a siren
A spider song of infinite doleur
Harping up and down an open airy strain
Occasionally passing unbearable pitches
Nature’s blue notes
You whistle between your tooth and your tongue
Whispering a longing desideratum,
An enslaved vacancy impossible to free
A tantric hum sticks deep in your throat
Swallowed to the reeds of your tonsils
An oscillating tinnitus of fingered crystal
Howling balefully on the moor of your soul
You incarnate the air you breathe
Cup your hands and blow across your thumbknuckles
Shaping a windy tone, that warms your hands
But stokes neither love nor flame
It is the call of a water bird
Or the long lunar moan of a moor dog
A lusty holler capable of luring buffalo over
The edge of South Dakota
Eagle feathers atop a black hill
But love is the high pitched whine
As frequencies quench the ear of god
A color beyond the rainbow
A pellucid light so clean and clear
It blinds death itself
Where our time on earth
Meets the limits of our senses
Saturated living hue going to ghost
Fragrance approaching pheromone
Taste of wine to tongue kisses
The horizon skimming the sky
Over the moans of the moor dogs
-Steven Peter McCormick
11:03 am • 31 July 2013