Don't talk about your sadness,
They'll say you're an annoyance.
Don't talk about how terrified you are,
They'll say you're frustrating.
Don't talk about your struggles,
They'll tell you all about their triumphs.
Don't talk about what you're going through,
They won't understand.
Don't tell anyone anything.
Simply cause it's pointless.
Struggles of the dead are valued more than those who are alive.
Nobody wants to sit with you and hear your sad story.
They want you to toughen up and get over it.
And that's not what you want to hear.
So don't say anything to anyone.
As pernicious abate
and heat expose a seance
the impending storm tracking with an epistle
only return with a doomsday flight here
when a message disclose the raft
in a sea of moguls with a titan
let fashion disrobe from an olive tree
that mount preparedness with a tremble
then drain the swamp!
Let's do things out of randomness,
Without a reason.
Let’s wake up at 7am,
and join the grandparents at tai chi.
Let’s go to animal shelters and volunteer,
Let’s wake up at 4am,
and go to the nearest convenient store,
just to have our favourite matcha ice cream.
Let's do us.
His eyes shined
like stars in the midnight sky,
he is perfect.
This love is perfect.
The way he talks with his hands,
the way he walks when he stands,
the way he smiles at me,
he's so perfect to me.
The way we can talk for hours,
the way we kiss in the rain showers,
the midnight drives back to my house,
oh how I love him,
everything in life is so perfect to me
he is perfect.
Now let’s see what I can make of the chronology of Chase.
Some thick wet messy bird semen
missing its mark, a drop, browning vent
feathers, another drop
oozing perfectly in, to the oviduct, where
minerals and fetus and pre feathers formed.
And now a slanted eye, lid half closed
after the fashion of a laying chicken hen,
a hen in its own right, Suzie Susan the bird,
sunflower seeds and malnutrition gracing her final
sits atop what can only be called a
cardboard cruelty to squeeze out the
rock and continue his
The same lidded look, a male somewhere gesticulating
split rock shale hued feathers and
pink scaled lizard feet,
as the unbelievable ordeal of egglaying begets
what will become a creature
and then warmth, a spot of raw pink
skin, so much like a goose bumped wet frozen bird
in the pot a day before supper,
warms the egg to a precise temperature
((Wikipedia knows what))
not to cook, but to love.
So many cages. Straight up and down
black white silver metal plastic
bars, maybe a metal floor and maybe
maybe even pine.
How he made his way into a
rabbit’s cage much too sideways for
any bird, losing feathers from
eating buggy dry dusty seed which he loved
almost as much as procreating,
I wish to Hell I knew,
so I could bitch about it too
and hate not only myself, my parents,
the wooden door that ended him,
but their rotted brains as well.
Made perches. Not safe, but sound.
Wood, sycamore, not disinfected, but worn
down to a point of home decor.
Birdshit everywhere, which was lovely
but I didn’t remember to clean it because
I was too young to know about anything
but Phantom of the Opera, dragons that have wings
and front arms always, don’t you dare fucking say different
because I will end you,
and the occasional long thin scab on the arm.
Sitting by me -- hating me in a way that spoke
of kindred love and bond --
and nothing at all of the $3 diet that he somehow subsisted
on for possibly four years,
or the improper bars slanted with thick white and gray urate and feces
paste uncleaned unchecked and untouched.
Or even the of the hard saved handful of cash earmarked for a
slightly less inadequate cage (but a cage nonetheless)
traded instead for a Nightmare on Elm Street box set containing
movies 1-6, plus 7, and Freddy vs Jason as well but not the remake,
but definitely of how someone, maybe me, taught you how to
whistle the Andy Griffith theme song even though I never watched
the dumb old show, and how to whistle
like a construction worker with a mild hard on
after an unintended female, with the “best ass
I ever fucking saw,”
and of strict bedtimes always met with a decent blanket,
and maybe even of the bird-like night frights in which
I felt my heart leap, and I turned on music for you with the
useless old sixty pound boxy computer that happened to still have
a working copy of windows media player installed
and singing Billy Joel’s Lullaby which had nothing to do with you
or I and everything to do with divorce and dying
but which was perfect,
and put you back to sleep without a broken neck or wing,
Does it matter if he’s a bird or man?
I tell you that he’s both.
He ate and shat and fucked and loved
and sang and slept and had grumpy days
and happy days
and pissed people off and was too loud
and was startled by screams
had to face the still silent unmoving sickening pregnant heat wave of grief
had favorite foods and songs and tv shows,
lived in boxes and only wanted out.
Greedy how he chirped so high on top of his lover
doing the tail spinny grindey dance against her pulsating orgasmic
center, and squirting
secretly much like the cock before him, whatever
and whoever he was, his eyes
wide and mouth open slightly.
And then her fat cinnamon body lay so many
thick shelled deadly pearls,
which were empty but never cold.
They loved their empty stale stagnant infertile eggs, by God,
these two perfect doomed parents given
not nearly enough to survive the
war of childbirth and rearing,
which they only tried out but were not privileged to suffer.
I would’ve named his sons Columbo after some name
I read in a book or maybe an online forum, that is
supposedly Italiano and supposedly means “dove,”
the fat birds of varying white and gray hues with the occasional
dazzle of blue or brown or black
that embody all the soft qualities of Chase, and Suzy
and I would attempt to end the misbegotten trend
that started when I named Chase after the gorgeous golden Aussie
character from House (which someone of my age probably
shouldn’t have watched)
and add some little Renatos and Ninfas and little
Agapetos or maybe even Uccellos or Ucellas.
But what would have been a family of tiny winged storm - skies
brought instead a slowish painful death, that could have been
oh so easily prevented and fixed with a little bit of love,
some mercy, some money, a vet, and possibly a fingertip amount of
dollar store canola cooking oil.
And Chase, what can I say of how you screamed an elegy, a dirge
more harrowing than Percy Shelley’s or Rilke’s or that poem Billy Collins
wrote about nine eleven, more true than the entire ludicrous book of Lamentations,
simply by screaming extreme, shrill and for so long, so long,
so through that the house shook with it and I cried too?
You wailed with a small dry wordless tongue
that shot into my ears and to my skull, brain, gray and white matter,
that absolutely trembled with the familiar horrific confusion
of suddenly waking to find that someone is gone and you
don’t know how but you know you’ll
see them again
you’d never stroke the smooth laughter of
her cheeks, you’d never press your small warm chest
against her wide brown wing again, my love,
would never remember
where the hell I laid her body,
lost the grave that you needed to touch and
maybe walk on and sing to,
But this wasn’t your life.
That instead was summed up,
concentrated into the small pregnant moment when
the flash and squeal of your body being
broken, crushed smashed practically severed,
dazed and shaken and slowly shut down
over the span of a weekend,
and again as it
replayed in my mind --
But these are only words and you can’t
exist in them except as a small sliver,
a fragment of soul, a quick whiff of heartbeat --
but I didn’t lose your grave.
There’s a soggy ground where you were lain, and a small wooden
plaque over your bones which painted with the words:
in pace requiescat,
which I admit I only know from Amontillado,
and the day and month and the year that you died
because you, the great mystery, have no birth date.
And I would proceed to cry and hate so many people,
myself, and you, and firstly my lovely parents,
who allowed you to die and pretended to apologize,
but most of all I would hate the world,
for swallowing up and making me think
that a part of your flesh, sloshy like the soil,
was absorbed and embodied as fresh growth on your
large drooping willow tree
and that if I stroke it,
when I touch it with these fat white fingers and let
the bark pierce my skin roughly,
rub it red and bloody dry,
that I am touching you
and letting you know
I remember and that Chase -- you spilling of bird
sperm and calcified ovum
that somehow became a grayish soul that God hardly
gave enough moons --
I hit you with a door
trying to close it,
but less sorry that I killed you and more sorry
that it was because, out of grandmotherly fear,
I never let you learn how to fly,
I clipped your wings and you, and we were so clumsy
that you ambled head first into its already severing crack
I hope wherever the hell you might be --
birdy paradise, Dante’s hell where lovers fly and that is torment --
that you have wings,
and they aren’t clipped,
and someone cleans up your shit.
He's had better days
He feels her eyes on him
She continues to watch
He's distracted and stutters
He likes his Saturdays
Chills on Fridays
He's tone is in a stuff
He's all alone
He says, "wait a minute, come back here"
He brings up the same things
I wonder why
Has he got nothing else to say?
He continues to talk
But she's gotta be on her way...
Boy, it is always a pleasure to see your face
It was already awkward, taking you
up the dubious muddy mountain, with
thoughts, unbeknownst of their occurrences.
All the more cliffhanging at the edges,
of the next moment, like a word expected
or not but not spoken, left alone in the mind.
But the lake and the wind, provided the lure,
to stay calm and composed and intermittently,
shut up and stare at the nothingness that the wind,
the reflections and the darkness offered. In the gaps,
between those nothingnesses, words place-held
the thoughts and bouts of past, present and future.
When you slipped, I pulled you by your hand,
harder than the pain stilling threshold.
My other hand carefully place-holding,
in the shape of your lower back, so that
just in case my pull became insufficient,
I wouldn't hesitate to prevent you from dipping
your clothes and slippers in the little mountain mud.