/                          feeding a throng of sparrows
              sweet buns,
                              pinch by pinch,
                            to their avaracious beaks...

trying to fend away
               the more imposing

schwarzmönche
                       auf die himmel!

the kafkas!
       and the inland venturers of
coastline stock...

the viking gulls (as i like to call
them)...

oh urban sparrow, O urban sparrow,
and your tender
           throng, perching
jittery on a tree,
   then scouting down to
a cold ukranian cement for mere
crumbs!

not too long ago
     a homeless dog (a rare phenomenon
in eastern europe)
   once approached me
  in the mongolian square of
the same theatre -

namely, warszawski dworzec
                      zachodni

         (warsaw's western station) -

/      tears:
                            cronica's
           interpretation of herr mannelig     /

as just beside the palace of culture
in central warsaw -

   being approached by a homeless
man -
     asking for food, first asking
him if he wanted a cigarette -
    
             surprised by the question -
replying:
   have the cigarette,

           and yes, i made this sandwitch
not too long ago -

with him, moments later,
in the corner of my eye -

      taking a **** (literally)
       on the lawn beneath the hunchback
shadow of the palace of culture...

   in the toe numbing yet
thrilling cold of poland's late March...

surely there can be nothing
satisfying when once you could feed
the trafalgar sq. congregation
of pigeons...

                   feeding sparrows?
while watching ukranians load and unload
themselves from coaches

at warsaw's western station?

              that's another matter...

                             their flickering - amber like -
nervous twitching, hyper-sensitivity -

i will never understand a man's
shame to encompass crying -

   like i will never understand
   the worth of a psychiatrist:

         having sampled the tertiary use of
language (i.e. by body)
              on a canvas of a *******:

why would crying ever be considered
shameful, when done so authentically
by a man experiencing beauty?!

   sure... the over-simplification of
a woman's crocodile petting...
  or those ******* 21st pansies that
are football ballerinas!

    it's such... a mental release!
                       it's like the sudden break
into a crescendo
      on anathema's song release...

you can take the church from the state
and keep an irrelevant church-state
vatican...

                         but the subliminal joy
of lament, within the confines of the heat-music
complex?

                          mozart didn't even
know what he was laughing about as depicted
in amadeus...
    it's not a pity craving, cramp...

     there is subliminal joy in allowing
what is too "erroneous"
                             in it also being
a river...

                p.s.

                      mind you, what is the fifth element?
you can make a funeral within earth...
you can make a funeral within fire,
you can make a funeral within water...
can't exactly make a funeral
within air -
                            since that would
just be decay...
                           and mourning rites -
         and since time forgotten lightning
has not been deemed an element...
   sorry michael faraday...

             then you can certainly make
a funeral in vacuum -

              like that marylin manson song,
an astronaut drifting through space...

ah ****...

                          those ****** sparrows;
gets me ever time i listen to some new music;
previously not on my music palette.