SurVision Magazine / Michael McConnell

Kite

On smoke you leapt, a whistling between
us split space. A fleck of shadow weasled
through scars where clown eyes rolled out

of Heaven and burrowed into the Earth
for light. In an alternate Universe,
Icarus, betrayed by wax gills, lay

stiff on a Greek ocean. Gnarled angel
fingers snatched seamless G chords from the air,
plucking blood from my hands. A desert dreamed
vines panting under the weight of a hundred

purple wombs. Countless hearts silenced.
Accordians forgot how to breathe. When
I snapped my fingers, you vanished. Hair

grew out of my mouth and tickled the chin
of a child-like Satan, who clacked
together its dusty hooves and laughed.

Gemini

Earth and fire fell apart, fell
in love again, praised the sky, lost

the will to suffer. Fire, tattood
in prayer, covered the Earth

in articulate kisses, quaked
her daydreams into climax.

They named their twins Elision
and Solliloquoy, baptized

them in the river, scalded
their small tongues to speak

no evil, only grow sunflowers
from their eyes, taught them

the vulnerability necessary
for flight, and vanished, leaving

no shoes to fill, only two sets
of dusty footprints walking away.

And wood nymphs to breed with,
paint brushes for when they grow

bored, starlight to remind them how
love will prevail if they let it,

especially when it doesn't seem so.

Michael Constantine McConnell is originally from Detroit, and currently is a resident of San Marcos, Texas, where he is pursuing a doctoral degree in Developmental Education at Texas State University. His most recent poems have appeared in the New Plains Review, the Lindenwood Review, and THAT Literary Review. One of his essays was nominated for the Pushcart Prize in 2011.

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An international online magazine that publishes Surrealist poetry in English. Issue One MICHAEL CONSTANTINE McCONNELL Kite On smoke you leapt, a whistling between us split space. A fleck of shadow weasled through scars where clown eyes rolled out of Heaven and burrowed into the Earth for light. In an alternate Universe, Icarus, betrayed by wax gills, lay stiff on a Greek ocean. Gnarled angel fingers snatched seamless G chords from the air, plucking blood from my hands. A desert dreamed vines panting under the weight of a hundred purple wombs. Countless hearts silenced. Accordians forgot how to breathe. When I snapped my fingers, you vanished. Hair grew out of my mouth and tickled the chin of a child-like Satan, who clacked together its dusty hooves and laughed. Gemini Earth and fire fell apart, fell in love again, praised the sky, lost the will to suffer. Fire, tattood in prayer, covered the Earth in articulate kisses, quaked her daydreams into climax. They named their twins Elision and Solliloquoy, baptized them in the river, scalded their small tongues to speak no evil, only grow sunflowers from their eyes, taught them the vulnerability necessary for flight, and vanished, leaving no shoes to fill, only two sets of dusty footprints walking away. And wood nymphs to breed with, paint brushes for when they grow bored, starlight to remind them how love will prevail if they let it, especially when it doesn't seem so. Michael Constantine McConnell is originally from Detroit, and currently is a resident of San Marcos, Texas, where he is pursuing a doctoral degree in Developmental Education at Texas State University. His most recent poems have appeared in the New Plains Review, the Lindenwood Review, and THAT Literary Review. One of his essays was nominated for the Pushcart Prize in 2011.
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