The chickadee flies around a little girls head.
Her hair hangs down her back like a rope.
A blade of grass tied around her braid.
The chickadees cheers for her to sing a story.
She won't turn around to acknowledge
the little token of friendship behind her.
The chickadee combs his claws in her hair.
The ribbon spins down and the party begins.
She stares at the setting sun to make it rise.
Her tank top helps her pretend she's strong.
Summer needs to enter the stage of snow.
Her soul is a bottle where she stores dreams.
All the clouds travel to earth in the winter.
The weight of the world is only winter.
The chickadee is the joy of winter.
for your arm
perched on my shoulder
like how a bird perches on it's home.
i want to be a safe place for you
i want to be a home,
not your home
but a home.
you can perch
i can stay put, with you
and we can sit.
so my dear
don't fly away.
There is a blue chickadee
Staring down at me
He is perched above me
To my right
Behind a neon glow worm
And a green ball guy named Ralph
He is unblinking
Relentless in his vigil
The queen of the universe
Did set him there
To keep watch o'er me
Though she will
Take him down from his post
To have him dance for her
His gaze is kindly
This emissary of the queen
When I catch his eye
He reminds me of her magic
And her care for me
Her loyal subject
Did I mention
He's just a cute little blue chickadee
So how could I object
To his watching over me?
We all need a reminder
There is magic everywhere
If only we open our eyes
And take a look.
Having not done the things I wanted to do
and the things I've done not being what I wanted to do
I sit here looking at lichen on the north side of trees.
cheerful and truthful expression
grouped in platoons, sharing the point.
The tribes travel together
first finches, then chickadees
following the squirrels every morning.
What luxury, abundance! Handful after handful
of grass seed thrown, into wind.
The corn ripe and the rye with it.
The other main families: pines, roses, peas,
lilies, daisies, heath, birch and oak.
Maple, honeysuckle, pink, mustard, cypress, mint, olive,
buckwheat, primrose, willow, buttercup, saxifrage,
Truth may be ascertained by considering
the truth we feel, the truth we're told,
the truth we reason, and the truth we've seen.
It is so good to be a chickadee.
To tell the truth cheerfully and joyfully.
In a way that makes others want to live.
I enjoyed my cake, thanks.
Actually it came in the form of a rootbeer float,
&& i took it in by my self.
I noticed the chicka-dee-dee on the fence,
as I listened to a timepiece from another era.
It fiddled with the butt from a cigarette long since smoked,
and i wondered if it was hungry, or just trying to catch a buzz.
He set it down, i leaped to action,
Threw the butt away, && returned to my seat.
Thought the loud chirping was directed towards me,
but of course he was getting laid in the rafters over yonder.
The significance? Not,
but if only to break the silence
between lovers long since broken apart.
Fresh laughter, lightness, and.. and..
Long, long pause, and return to silence.
It's time to cut the bullshit
And take the FINAL PRODUCT
DOWN TOWN !
we live in the alleyway under the el - tracks
In the darkest city
Where no humans dwell
( just us robotic imitations
In human form )
we fuck like Ken & Barbie
& pretend that Someday
We'll pretend to play House
And that we are real
And that we know love
We worship Idols
we abuse the Sacred
We abuse each other
We write poems about it !
( which I find very strange )
It's time to cut the bullshit
REALITY AINT BAD !
it's that time girl
to take the FINAL PRODUCT
DOWN TOWN !
I hit a Jack Rabbit going sixty or seventy five,
I turned off the radio,
I was on the road for 18 hours already,
thats when shadows come alive,
I never hit anything before,
never killed anything that big.
When I was 14, I lived in Kansas, Kansas city granted,
but Kansas all the same.
We would go to my friends farm,
he owned enough guns for a small militia,
There were 3 of us, with three scatter killing booms.
We would rake the fields to flush anything out,
we hoped for ducks or quail
(I only pretended too, I wasn't sure then if my balls really dropped)
and we would shoot,
Sometimes for the noise,
other times for the show.
I never killed anything.
On the way back home I saw a little chickadee perched high in a tree,
and he fell.
"Nice one man!"
I ran over, hiding my tears, and buried him.
I got out of there as soon as I could, Kansas that is,
I was stuck at the farm.
Eight years later and I'm still not sure about my balls.
This time I didn't bury him.
I like to think it was male,
for some reason that lessens the pain.
I don't know if I crushed the life out of him quickly,
I imagine it was slow,
toturing myself with every detail as my retribution.
Made a nice thump though.
I could feel his delicate body even through the tire the shocks and the rest of the parts between me and his bloody corpse.
Softer than a speed bump.
Why did Dorothy ever go home.