Boston    1982 -   
Keith Collard is an American writer much to the anger of others.

Gemini well after I die.








.
Keith Collard is an American writer much to the anger of others.

Gemini well after I die.








.
Keith Collard
Keith Collard
7 days ago

What the Sparrows mean to me,
brace yourself,
and I will be straight as beak,
no longer oblique.
" I shoot up, cuz I miss my kids."
Well, the State might as well be Sparrow Custody,
"Shakespear's birds,"
that don't have the option of "To be or Not to be,"
take the house sparrow chic that falls in the aisle,
take him to the Song Sparrow versatile,
that male with fierce face,
hungry chirps he will replace,
and as all flee as it gets colder,
the House Sparrow winters over,
females banding together,
chasing off hawk off red shoulder.
slipping through talons,
you will not get her fledgling,
she will fight, she will slip,
rendering useless a fatal talon grip,
her plummage lacks flair,
but her plummage is always there.

" Why are you so weird Keith?"
because of what the Sparrows mean to me,
" must you always talk of nature and weird things?"
Listen to how the Song Sparrow sings,
Am I such a fool, belonging to the natural school?
do you not hear what I say,
I don't care about your dead friends,
only your dead babe,
The State will sing a song for your son--
as you look for another drug,
clean your sneakers, find material things,
smoke your weed, take your k-pins,
assuage your anxiety,
or you can listen to me,
things are not what they seem,
see males feed babes, females fight hawks,
What The Sparrows Mean to Me?
I was left for dead,
Oh my Holy School,
I was not a Song Sparrow,
but I had a handsome fierce face,
I heard a song near my house,
Now, My Song comes from the Sparrow and not the State,
fuck your dead friends, fuck his wake,
my charm comes from my harm,
I lured you into the woods with my natural school,
had your tough southie self pulling twigs from your hair,
and "not one sparrow will fall to the ground
outside your father's care,"
so fuck your tough city attitude,
God loves you more than the sparrows,
and the Sparrows love your kids better than you,
shoot your dope and "dream that life is beauty,"
or awake and watch the Sparrows--
and see "that life is duty,"

"What the fucking Sparrows mean to me?
" Lets get your fucking son back."
And rejoin Nature,
the only  Holy Reality.
I still feel the grip of the hawk,
we are both red of shoulder,
like the female my religion winters over.

My little Catholics,
so you will always remember,
the clock ticks "never" and "ever,"
in the dark waiting hall,
beyond the hearth's flaring ember,
in that dark lonely hall,
both ways of 'father's echoing lever,
"ever" to be in hell, "never" to be heaven,
the only forgetting,
in that lonely stone hall,
is "never to be in heaven,"
then the ember re -installs,
back down to that hot setting,
the only other time to tell,
"tic""...
"never to be in heaven"
"toc" ...forever in hell"
and my little studious Catholics,
as the hearth reflects up and down stone wall,
your art, inventions, money, woman you recall,
"tic" never to be in heaven,
and that is not all,
are you not forgetting,
the other time, that the end of time will tell,
"never to be in heaven"
vacillates back to "ever in hell"
and in between the ember re installing,
your God defying life you are recalling,
that fire beyond the hearth, like no other on earth,
it is birth of death, and death at birth,
never to be in heaven,
is maddening enough,
to make you drink hot coals to quench your thirst,
then the chime less and timeless time will tell,
discarded from God,
"toc"
into the coals-- feet first,
never to be in heaven, ever to be hell.
So my little studious Catholics,
SIT UP--EYES FORWARD,
Think of the Catechism
and NOT THE RINGING OF THE CLASSROOM BELL.

Been homeless for awhile now,
april is hard,
april is always hard,
been april for awhile now,
wish I never met her,
no adapting,
no predicting her weather,
when the sun comes through
I am the sweating winter fool,
and when she goes away,
such a dream was May,

Dreaming of May for awhile now,
forever dreaming,
forever is always hard,
dreaming is April,
everything is so close,
like the winter locker with summer clothes,
and when you lose something,
only April knows,
like patience,
and endurance,
been April for months now,
hard months forever in April,
been coughing awhile now,

  cold and painful is April rain,
Been homeless for awhile,
April is always hard,
Been having glimpses of May,
They are cold and painful,
They forever remind me,
There is no adapting,
April is the month of dreaming.

I used to sing that song " Im the man,Im the man ,Im the man."

But then my girl would hit me with a frying pan, frying pan, frying pan.

Now i lip sync so she cant understand, understand, understand.

For all she knows im saying yes m'am yes m'am yes m'am...but under my breath im the man im the man im the man.

I love you
Still die for you
Could never even be mad at you,
But my love,
If you ever become president
I will have to assasinate you.
And just to still be a gentleman,
After I follow through,
My forehead will have a hollow too.
As crazy as it sounds,
It is Hitler and Ava,
But the other way around,
You would raise my son,
But lower more in the ground
For people that do not know,
I allow her the control,
For me the prom is cheap,
It takes wars to pay for her prom clothes.
But if she does not let you wear fur,
You must assasinate her,
My love has a good heart,
But that is Pandoras part,
Our club is called The Gods Head,
And it can only be comprised of men.

You must die--whilst alive--to leave your cage. I once had a talking parrot--who lied--saying his luxury confinement was "quite ok."  On an african hunt for the diamond carrot, is where i stole him back to Bombay.
Then before returning on consignment--my pet parrot wished with me a parley.
      "Can you bring me back any messages--and tell them i am quite alright"--when i told this to a crying parrot--he quickly died on sight.
I told this to my pet when i returned--and he cried and did the same.  I sadly tossed him in the rubbish--but then i realized what the message contained--because he got up and flew away.

( lol, i was watching a self help speaker on tv last night, and he told a old indian parable, thought it would be catchy as a poem.)

I find it mysteriously sad,
watching my footprints in grass
Begin to fade,
With the upward bending of each returning blade.
My path is gone,
Aside from what i am standing on,
But what if.... where I see tufts in lawn,
My mirrored footprints pushing up and lasting long,
Into my world he pushes in,
A happy man with a stronger print,

As i wake  with a worldly dream still inside my head,
I try to store it in the window beside my bed.
Reaching to touch a star, and feeling the cold of glass instead, i realize so close a world,
Since waking--has long been dead.







A silverscreen of car headlight beams,
gliding my walls conveys a supernatural theme,
Faster and faster,
To the only scary scene,
In another world,
A man it seems,
In a  silky spectral suit
of asphyxiating white,
Back to the color
Of a skeleton exhumed--
With an unbecoming
oblivion colored tie,
So flawlessly destroying
Edges onto spectral light.
And this suit would animate,
Gasping, trying to adjust,
The imperceptable knot,
Destroying his tailored cumulus.

This tie cast such a doom,
and such a fear,
It stung me still,
And held me dear,
Paralyzed,
Drawing me near,
Just looking into where i will be ending,
Into its destroying digestion,
I was already dissolving,
In darkness ensphered,
Looking out its lining
Into a more abysmal atmosphere.


I woke...
And touched a star on a cold window drawn,
To quickly make this dream be gone,
I ran barefoot outside,
To stand till dawn,
Grateful,
For holding down blades of cold wet lawn.

 
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