Who's aFraid of Doing an MFA?

My Bird and Bear and Buddha Self, Irked on the Commute

It was early.
Gwyneth was purring, her new car smell almost
over-powering the stereo.
Chumps! I chortled, zooming past—
and the world spins madly on
(snippets of a sad song in shafts of light).
This week there was a
super-harvest moon hanging pendulous up there—auspices of
the crazy alignments to come.
Like that one day—I might just fly!
Not little by little (like that dream
I had about holding the magical window above my head)
but at once and as if on mighty wings
shrieking like a fearsome air raid.

I would soar in my blissful soaring,
and like the arctic tern, my wings would be edged
with a smear of soot (only iridescent)
playing in the taste of salt
and the smells of water.
I would bring you treasures, beloved.
Squirming gems of sea-life,
flashing food fumbling low on the food-chain
meant to nourish you, inspire eggs even.
On these pearlescent wings I would perform stunts,
grand and glad journeys.

From close speculation, roundabout wonder
and the focus of a nearsighted bear
(my bird sight obviously gone now)
I study and study and study and establish
that a connection between suffering and the end of suffering
is insurmountable.

It is indicative of so much, I grumble.
(Too soon ambling into the salt mines).
Rapacious patriarchy changed the face of everything, with their cultural
knout, like the historical chastiser they have proven to be.