Tagged: the Birds


always interrupt me for
animals or ghosts

food-related reasons

a sound you
hear the car making

my exit
a song on the radio in

need of lifting
or a heavy thing

land upon
my head

wake me up with tears
if I am cold

slipped like petals
on the sheets

like grief
drawn by a fly

or a bird
hiding its hurt

stop me at the edge
if I get too close

hold my body in
point me towards

the beginning
and set me down

Yell Fuck at Canoe Rental

geese scream hate
over a banjo being played
inside a trailer full
of life-jackets

the geese are so angry
they lose themselves
feathers in disarray off them
dropping two at a time

soon there will be
more feathers on
the ground
than on the birds themselves

you could build a new bird
imagine the feathers cleaned
and colored for crafts
kids attaching them

to their shoes, banjo music
lifting them into the sky
where light is adjacent colors
the music plays on speaker

it will never stop
but eventually the geese do
they scream their necks
into collapse, then

disperse, like light
onto the blacktop
the light is the same light

as always. we’ve had it
this whole time. it has been
everything since and will be
everything else

it extends beyond the prism
of our atmosphere. it comes from
a fucking star – how can there
be hate?

it is only the brain making
of light what it will
the brain which has never felt
the feeling of light on its skin


i am asked to pass candles over a fence to a party

i light them first, which I guess makes the whole thing harder

looking back it seems strange

each candle seems desperate, a plea to other nights

the flame a small bird struggling with huge weight

overstimulant with nice things

buried in woman’s hair, the air all at once

i know they are small, my hands

but small things eat things

they consume slugs as dolphins

people who understand, might understand

i see the world in the eyes of everyone else

or do i just see it that way

is near death a symptom, or the start of a remedy

should I stop now, or just go with it?

Voyager 1

baby birds cry
to expose the red insides
of their mouths

so that the parents
can deliver food

any sound they make
is just screaming
it attracts possums

we sing, we scream
in both joy & anger
we certainly cry – in
everything we say
we are saying

Here I am
Come get me
like baby birds

preferring the company
of whatever’s out there
to nothing

Grief Later

What’s the turn around? Will this
be like when I was 4 and didn’t cry
at Nana’s funeral, because
she smelled funny, because
she brushed my hair too hard
in a hammock once? I was 4
I remember things as if through
that hammock, my face pressed
into ropes like the blueprint of a face
I can’t remember what I’ve lied
about, or what is a story. Was it even
me who saved the chicken heads
because their beaks still moved?
Where would I have put them? If I went
back to the house on Rogge Lane, to
the adjoining back yards, would there
be a knot hole, a cinder block shelf
rowed with chicken heads?
Are they still in my pocket? Or
are we completely mistaken by grief?
Kidnapped. I wonder…
can it be considered a good life
if when you die, even for a second,
someone hopes you haven’t?

Roy G.

In the same vein
hands are laced
of lovers walking

runners erect
their running stances
filling with air

like animals do
to avoid
being eaten

I am guilty of this
and pulling away my dog
from his interests

something about today
though. I am
in touch

a hand has drawn the sun
a little closer,
cracking it

like an egg
the water

I let my dog stop
and sniff
whatever he wants

we gaze upon a duck
at the edge
of the spillway

I will be a new man
when I have forgotten
this day

and can read on it again
its fishing men

like ants in a sink
twitching in the spray
of a silver faucet

they won’t catch much
most of the fish
are sent downstream

through a bypass
in the dam. Shall we
go to the end today?

where heron stand
aloft in
their jubilant arches

their faces
on the water


//The early bird catches tape worm

//The early bird catches her mother and father
eagerly awaiting separate packages

//The early bird catches the worm’s understudy, Gregory
face down in a puddle behind the theater. No one can find Worm
Show is 2 days away

//The Early Bird is the first known organism to appear with feathers
It must have flown solely from attempts to shake them off

We Were Here

An injured hawk circles the circumference
of its tether, resting occasionally on a glove
attached to the fence. Clouds gallop over
mountains, shedding their snow like loose summer hair
I’ve seen no people between Moab and New Mexico
Just the signs of people. There’s a town called
Many Farms where TB medication was tested in the 50s
Several hand-written signs for Xbox repair
A stray dog at the Conoco eating what remains
of a sandwich. The school sits half-excavated
from the rock. You or I take pictures from the car
I wonder where the people are, and if a land
so unforgiving is ever asked

Hermit Crab on the Woodpecker

Poor old woodpecker tried
the telephone pole. Forty-thousand
calls, dropped into the sea

Of all the things the humans say
how much of them
have been said forever?

I am hungry. I am thirsty
I am crawling inside
something else to sleep

I can’t come to the phone right now
I am staying behind
on my own
to fidget with the mammoth carcass

Maybe its bladder
can be made into a bladder!

It’s your night to cook
Where are the hand attachments?
The forks, the knives, the spears
Why do hands make
such inadequate weapons
that we should have to
consider what we hold
before killing, before pulling off
the side of the road?

How long have words
been a part of the head?

Slanted lights
in black water, used
for tricking smaller fish
into listening, into
getting uncomfortably close

Bright Spots

the girl at the bus stop
I barely saw, like water colors
the girl in the face
of the automobile, the peripheral
firefly, the wax candy melting
the girl in the shop window
at Hooters, setting up tables in
what looks like my girlfriend’s
dad’s sweater. the snoconistas
who work until November
dipping their nails in the syrup
and hanging them out of the truck
like rare flavors. the girl
with the tatted arm sleeves
squirting her dogs with water
on the stoop of the mini-golf course
Peter Pan in those tight shorts
looming over everything
the girl who knows her birds
whose mouth is like a bird’s
having evolved on an island
for something so specific
the heron’s shallow stabbing
instrument. the pelican’s scoop
tasting of salt. the girl
at the office, who simply has
to stand in front of something
to make it better

The window’s tint
the blue, how blue
is the grass