In my chest there is a bird
Who's fluttering spurs all my words
A muffled song her sorrows sing
In ribcage trapped a fragile thing
My body is a birdcage

And butterflies, those wicked things
They dart around on razor wings
My insides now all ribbons be
My body is a birdcage

Translucent skin on hallow bones
And as time goes emptiness grows
A song once sung now no one knows
My body is a birdcage

Now windswept ribs begin to bleach
Sandshifted joints begin to preach
The heavens high a bird does reach
From what was once a birdcage

Noises all around.
Spinning round, and round.
An endless circle with only sound.
People around me use their mouth, not to speak for a purpose.
No. They talk, move their mouths constantly. Why?
Only to make noise, chaos, and sound.
Im sitting in the birdcage. Noises all around.

My thoughts are somewhere else. But the noises are following me around.
Leave me alone! Can't I just block it all out?
Get away from the noise, all the sound. All the people who make me this miserable....
No. Im still sitting here. Trapped in the birdcage, with noises all around.

My arms are wings,
That flap,
Flap,
But never seem to get me off the ground.

My mind is a birdcage,
That keeps me trapped here,
In these melancholy thoughts and delusions,
And keep me tripped on acid,
Although I have never taken the pills.

Maybe someday,
I can break free of this hell,
The key is dangling just out of my reach,
And these arms will surely grow.

And it's difficult to remember something as the very name of Eisenhower
Or flowerbaskets
And tired movies made of silicone and
Aftersex
Or sixteen candles echoing out of an imaginary suite with cigarettes at every table
And green lawns
Barbershop conversation
The reflection of the sun in special trees
Or my best friend Jesus Christ
Or the smell of the theater that one day with the cynics who just got back from a tennis match and barbwire still laced delicately around their thoughts and
Nihilism
And automotives
And priestess Jane or Henry's gloomy doppelganger who reads alternative magazines and loves the aesthetics behind broken glass
And fine tuned musical instruments

It's difficult to remember
Lonesome Fridays smoking on a park bench trying to finish the puzzle
Or synagogues you've never been in
Or insurance
Or newspaper articles detailing the misadventures of Mr. City
(Of course of course! Take your shoes off at the door and make yourself at home)
We're tossing all our sewage into the ocean
that's far from clean as it
LOOKS anymore these days
That's anything
And everything except for the glowing mountains seen faded and wintry behind Apartments and the
"Glorious Mexican House of Spices"
Never been in there either

It's difficult to remember
Times of Mr Twin Sister
Or Joan Jett in the hallway
In a highschool who's psychology classrooms have become a time capsule in the ground/
Or the gentle skinny ******
Wearing Broadway makeup and
Kafka tattooed on his shoulder
I like his hat
He looks at me suspiciously
Or the guy who is yelling his order at the counter when it's quiet here anyways
Or the mariner who has a hobby of the saxophone
Or 1970s *******
Or the sheepskin bikeseat fad that's yet to come but I'm predicting it now!
Or two dollars and twentyseven cents at the beginning of Allen Ginsberg's America
"I've given you all and now I'm nothing"

It's difficult to remember
The Oriental
Sacramento flies
Midnight Moon
Quarter to four
"The Immortalization Commission"
Remodelled hotels downtown
Where mandalas on the floor became a
Tiger lily luminous
And the kimono is yesterday's painting/
Dearest Darling
When I was feeling down!
A staircase in reverse (??)
The sound a kiss makes
It's difficult to remember
Colleen's earrings
Or Washington State
Or air conditioners in Bali
The Indian ocean's daybreak hymn
To Seminyak
Or whatever happened to Steve from the Airplane out of Taiwan
On 3 days awake
Hello Kitty nursing stations
****** (Kubrick's version)
Cardboard taking up half my bedroom
It's difficult to remember until I jot it down and then its a sudden forever
Sunshine Superman in a cafe spontaneous
drawings with someone I just met who has some ******* attitude/
Who hops fences and has feral ideas
People! En Masse! Te Amo!
You're all in wolven liberty
And vague postulators
And holy prostitutes for the dollar
Sad eyed intellectuals
With undergarments made of breakfast cereal/
Seaferry poetry is different from
Trestle in August poetry
Or henna handshakes
Or the Napoleonic era
Sweet Cherry Pie
The tulip's tongue
Garabajal
Cloudy first day of July
Was hotter yesterday
But not too hot

It's difficult to remember
Antiquity
The pale horse Studebaker outside the clinic
With a glossy red trim and **** I wish that was my ride
Andy Warhol's exploding plastic inevitable
Nearsightedness
Angels and their ability to shower with a a snap of their fingers
Distant harp music
Better him than me
Bananas almost ripe
Green aquatic
Reclusive junkies
Palomo's appliances
Questions for the next time
How much I like what you like and how I like that you like what I like
Ahh that's not my bus
I'm trying to get to the city!
That one quote Socrates is known for about knowing nothing as true wisdom
Supermarkets being built on top of liquor stores burned down a while back
Monopolies
Tragedies
"No Love Lost"
THE HOUSE ON HAUNTED HILL
Your guess is as good as mine
Never tried to eat Asian food in Asia
It was all pasta and good cider that tasted like pineapple
Rain hitting the window and I'm
Drowsy again
God Save The Trees!
Curly hair looks good on boys
Torn up blinds
Queer as a three dollar bill
If Bill costs 3 dollars I'm sure he's caught something better safe than sorry
Sage advice
I'm the very model of a modern major general
Golden yen and international currency
Incense in the bedroom and how good it smells
There's my bus! Applying for a better job than the one I got now
But that's how it always is right?
Chasing satisfaction
1007 apt
Porch ornaments
Unique names
Unique style le style
The extra charge on foreign ATMs
Cordoroy polo shirts
Flooding in New York!
When someone's face screams *******
"Slippery when wet"
Dine N Dash
Grass gone yellow
Confidence in dyed hair and capes as long as wedding gowns
But less expensive
Doors that always seem to be locked and I'm wondering 20 year later what's behind them?
Albino animals
White thoughts as clouds or
Abstractions
Weathers nicer in Florida but who cares
Festivities this early in the day
Automatopeia
Do sad orphanages still exist?
Just like the movies
Midnight in mirrors
That sick puppet at the shoe shop used
To know how to really hammer it down
And now he's weak and forgotten
Never heard the words of a true prophet only Oceania
Or the private temple near Apollo Bay
Like Japanese gardens behind that gate
Will I ever see it
Make a proud example outta ya misbehavior
Form without function
Exhausted spiritualism
*** Kettle Black
negative photographs of dark rooms
And there's laughing coming from SOMEWHERE
Essays on kleptomania
Had a bad dream I became a cliche
Surrounded by other freaks and there was a lovely ***** I fell in love with her
We married in Oregon by the sea her name was rosy
***** rosy
Check your mailbox for nails
And what you don't wanna hear/
If you were a vegetable you'd be organic!
Empire
Satirical bubble gum
Satori
Linda Lovelace and her special party trick
That's someone's fantasy
Diamond in the rough
Mister guy with two black eyes frequents the adult playhouse
Hes fully stocked on fishnet leggings
He's too proud to put them on himself but
Has nobody else around
Boo hoo
Swigs back the whiskey and trips down the stairs getting a third black eye in the process
Marion came by with her dog the other day
Wanted her box of clothes back but he loved to sniff them to remember her
But she wouldn't have it

"Honey I'm going to call the police!"

"Ah they don't give a **** they have bigger things to worry about"

"Yeah you got that right shrimp **** enjoy my unwashed *******"

And she never came back again
He started losing the vertebrae in his spine 1 by 1 and you know where this is going
I won't say he was a poor man because he had it all coming to him the *******
But he coulda had a better start if you ask me.

It's difficult to remember
And even more difficult to forget
After the fact

Seagull opera
Giganticism
Portrait of the artist as a young man
Losing one's pencil when the best idea of your life drops down from heaven and into your sorry head
Signs graffitied to have funnier meanings
Cruelty
Impassive
The Loyal Lioness
And Bangladesh has too many kitchens
And not enough dishes
When I was young I used to say Island as "is-land"  
Which is true it is land
But the Europeans probably stole it from somebody else anyways/
I left my future behind
And objects in the mirror are closer than they appear
Im no illusionist
I'm terrified of the cracken
Father feels the same way about
Hotels
Why bother/
This has been going on and on for a while are you tired yet
Is your patience being tested
Mine isn't because this wasn't an all-at-once kind of rambling
It's extremely important to laugh at least
Once a day
Otherwise you'll find yourself a politician
In no time at all
Rockefeller
(         ) Quaint home to die in
I think
Trains create great music
Float on
Sink into yourself
Roses in a crooked alley
That's people
Busy busy busy busy
Let's describe a situationist
I'm not a fan of bright colors on clothes
Your best shade is blue
Bricklayers transcription of Don Quixote to a skyscraper
Rocket thyme
& Garden
Erratic children's
Insomnia
The doorbell repeatedly
Vancouver riots/ I saw that live on the news!
Pictionary with the surrealists
N Dada TV set MC Escher
Antenna
You're in the Twilight Zone now
Dear Ramona
I'm trying to make it up to you
With a brightness only seen when you're ready to see it so please for the love of God don't blame me when it's not appearing
The tapestry hidden
Keep your blankets clean
And avoid hospitals unless you're fine with fishbowls & the halogen
The water gestapo
Storage lockers full of unacted plays and
Antique microwaves
Emitting the nostalgia of the cold war era
And what a waste of time that was /
Walter Wanderleys presence in Autumn universities
The opening of Vivre sa Vie
Salvador Dali's pluvial taxi
Lightbulb epiphanies
Aquariums and their protestors
Zebras in the shade
Two wrongs dont make a right
Elizabethan theater
Saloon shootouts in a fever dream
I lost and bled out all over the rustic wooden floor
A maiden reached out for me and El Paso did play I woke up and pretended nothing happened/
Funerals for bad People who did bad things
My first memory of a cat beneath the mattress
Hello Dolly!
Auditory learning
Psychotherapy
Lillian the landlady lost her ladle and labeled little Lyle as a lair
The Black panther movement
Reading symposium some years ago and
Making note that Phaedo was still my favorite dialogue/
Zen Buddhism
Xoxo xoxo
The day Gypsies were replaced with
Surface ****** appetite
And not the real thing
Newspaper clippings
Hypnotism when all other options are out
Mystical visions of sidewalks
And the love of your life stepping through a door you've never seen
Maybe Yes No I Don't Know
Creature comforts
Che Guevara's problem is that his beard made him too easy to recognize
(Also that little hat!)
Chinese cough medicine didn't work
For long I still wheeze sometimes
Domestic violence thru the wall
Ceiling fan probably doesn't even work!
Dimpled laughter
Yankee Hotel Foxtrot
In skytrains to Commercial
Bermuda in her mind
And courtesy in her voice
I'm no Arthur Rimbaud
But you already knew that
Alcazar of Seville
Filling up the shipbottle
Here's your paradise
Now relinquish it as it is
False!
Hare Krishna
Nowhere Fast
El Diablo and the
Portofino loaf left rotting on the countertop
Latin children speak of the sacred viper
You'll hear of it after this but we'll never see what the ******* meant
Heads alternating round the social current
Of my lively city
There's a dog soaking up the rain
And songs are made in honor of
Recent catastrophes
Trials are dealt
Cards cast to the gutter
New York quiets down for the news of another war
You scratch my back I'll scratch yours
Skeleton key
Ballad of the last wailing zoo
THE ATRIUM
Complexity in simplicity
That's how Brainard got me!
Elderly overcoats
Hiding purest LSD
Is a fan of Hawaiian T shirts
And a communist
What if I was a Freemason
Or owned a tanning salon
Faint crimson
What did Marv look like again?
"You're surrounded by people who love you"
Coffee when one needs it
GOODBYE BLUE MONDAY
Tattoos on the wandering man
Oriental chimes and the people who own them
Bus stop regulars
Vines overtaking power lines
The hypnogogic state
Strawberry light softening
The mind
Sister Ray LOUDLY PROCLAIMING
doitdoitdoitdoit
Passing the graffiti n Pluto neon
Halal wide awake another Saturday
Where's the Karaoke
Flashing by here
Those who find comfort in a bridal scavenger hunt
Or expensive beer
And here comes the hooded clown
Clamoring about his favorite
Loudspeaker
Telling me my time is soon and the noise
Drowns out the drowsy bliss
After hour spirits the perfect time for
Writing and trying to read distant Chinese
Indecision on the tip of the tongue
"NOW WHO IS THAT KNOCKING
ON THE CHAMBER DOOR?
COULD IT BE THE POLICE?"

I'm completely off the topic
And into Apartment lobby photosets
Low battery phone calls
Confessions
Nauseated reverb
Trying to see the attachment people got with bingo halls
And moving companies
Ah no luck again
Eve is at it with her showtunes
Halfway methodology
Triage
Paisley headbands left
Distraught on the quivering
Heater
Dwindling sunsets
We're truly disciples of the moon spirit which grants us more energy
(This is according to a drunk I met one night)
Or ***** old men
When the horizon is engulfed with
A winking cinder
Suitcase at the door
Last time
First time
Magician never reveals his fetishes
(They all have to do with bags under your eyes)
Employment office dramas of my friend the one who blinded a social worker
And the one who blamed Islam
And the one whos philosophy entirely consisted of Spooky Action at a
                                            DISTANCE
Parisian riots
Queer youth
Didn't make the team! Jester
'cross the hall who's beard suggests
Ishmeal n car battery n expired vegetables n rain which crosses the line n
***** cranberry n
Poorly fitted suits n
Harsh pigment n incense shops n
Bocca     secret towns
With churches more beautiful than any you'd find in your own city
n the cultural market
Xylophone ear to ear
Soul cleansing starting at only
$89 (with a 6 month guarantee)
Sophie's birthday and her picnic at Victory Park
The nearby bums trying to sell tea mugs and
Loose wires beside gated convenience stores
I'm an Island away attempting a poem
And never bought a scratch n win
Or heard the same song more than seven times in a row or been in a column
Or escaped the washhouse
Invested in a birdcage for next year
Been to a palm reading
Visited Oasis
Smoked salmon
Told anyone else about Montana
Screamed the things I'd like to scream
** Word of the day
Or kissed a lunatic or swallowed the corpse of yesterday
I keep her on my neck until
I'm too anxious to let go
Counting streetlights
Jeans worn in and faded to be sent off to
A lonely caffeine addict
Christmas Eve I'll be reading a postcard from San Francisco
Asking the same questions
My imagination is made of a different material than last week
Now it's the same color as your hair
HEY that's a good pickup line to use in the heart of the Canadian Embassy
Drinking discarded music resembling a sweater you may have said YES to if it wasn't so unsure of itself
And now Mr. Acker Bilk ascends thru the window of an August home
Like a lazy hornet
I'm still lost without identification
Or a nice belt
As happens when one uses a quality item too casually
How did uphill suddenly seem so downhill?
I'll claim a waterfall
For SALE that inevitable Indonesia
Greyhound O another greyhound O another greyhound
I'm fretting too much about not enough
Delayed the Airport and the yellow question

????

II

What if I knew how to read the curb?
Or translate drunken droll
What if I was never tired again and could
REALLY do anything I set my mind to?
What if I was the first cigarette that cured cancer instead of caused it?
What if I could end superstition
And walk underneath any ladder I wanted?
What if I could make it with a young Audrey Hepburn!?
What if I stopped pretending to be a microphone and got on with "it"
What if the grocery store closed later
And I opened earlier?
What if parking lots werent so sad
All the time?
What if gravity simply had enough of exotic birds and specifics?
What if we stopped trying to recreate what is truly lost?
What if foreign children embraced
Wasting time instead of
Midnight starry bicycles
And the antics of a monk
Disguised as a romantic?

There are those that worship God
And those who worship the Sun
And those who worship nothing at all
But I suppose on the last bus
We're all the same exhausted
Voice who can't wait for next pay day
What is an empty bank?
Or authenticity
What is there to prove anymore?
I hope I don't die tonight and regret
Being impulsive for once
You're a smart shadow
And a dull character
Pushing the last of the daisies
Get the lamp to turn on again
Give the pavement something to look forward to with your walk
Be consistent in being inconsistent
If there's a word there's a ***** and a poem for it!
We all oughta worship
Nothing at all except
Clarity
Compassion with ones neighbor who either forgot the pay the electricity bill or couldn't afford to
We're a swimmin

Once I was a king loathed by my kingdom.
I was a machine built from the toughest iron nothing could break through.
I left my emotions to rust in the rain and murdered them in the cold night.
But I let my ego hold my strings and now I can't even treat a human right.
I meet a manic on the south side of town.
With a cane in hand and his mind locked in a birdcage since the war.
He was a maniac for trusting me and loving me and all my iron core.
I don't believe his tales for,
he is dead on the inside.
Departed from his heart,
He says he feels more alive this way.
With a cigarette in my hand, I hope for his life to never feel alone again.

oh but what you are doesn't necessarily remain,
we already know what you are,
you are a masquerade of excuses,
and your favourite subject of expressing
the masquerade is philosophy -
by it you find yourself excused,
but because the english undermined
a philosophical expression we've found
a weak spot, a diaphragm sort of speak;
indeed oh, what you are doesn't necessarily remain,
what you create and leave behind is necessary -
i just hope you find the heart to entomb in your
heart those in the modern era you found
pleasure in entertaining you grasping such
a vain effort of your frivolous maintenance
of the easily accessed numbers of similar examples -
sunglasses in the night - a ghost in the machine -
a soul extracted from the body in that lonely
cataract of flooding applause with one actor
and one member of the audience scared to applaud -
your creation... your immediate loss of identity -
but of course you were anticipating the organic
form of what would become a cohesive inorganic
entity - of the example that a mother even speaks
of regarding a robot - now why would a mother
speak of a robot? hmm? guess... it's a test for
a.s.i., i.e. analytically synthetic intelligence -
history repeats itself -
                history repeats itself -
                                you analyse no difference -
hence you synthesise replication - and you call
it intelligence of avoidance yet waste it on
a test for intelligence quantified, rearing in politicians
to craft a chiral representation of intelligence
quantified - in the recycling bin -
so much intelligence wasted, quantified,
leaving so much stupidity qualified to fake it,
instead of the recycling bin, thrown into the pigs'
through...
indeed, you are not what necessarily remains,
all the fabulous discoveries of science, and yet
the burning existential questions - thrown at you
by the pyramidal scheme of the non-inventors,
the once proud aristocrats languishing beneath
the weight of new-money barons...
indeed you are not what necessarily remains,
you are what necessarily remains in what you
are already... in such great number,
as in the liturgy of history... an anonymity...
perhaps all you ever were was a method statement
of creating a soufflé, the fermentation process of grapes...
how foolish you look now, readied for slaughter,
attempting to clarify a famous person syndrome,
grovelling like a ****-politician slurping attention
in Orwell's house - i know my stance -
by the machine being fed exponentials -
once only deluded if i be found prophetic on the street,
but with a house bound to a value
a suicide rate is worth in Switzerland (£10,000),
you think i'd pleasure myself with your tabloid
philosophy and wait for sympathy or disgrace?
guess...
                    it's free; a guess is free,
                                your little birdcage houses no sing-along.

I always tell myself
I am comfortable in the Birdcage
Where it is safe

Until the howling wind hits my cheek
And I yearn to fly again

I see the way you
look at me.
I smile and laugh
right in your face.
Taunt me with freedom,
will you?
You shall not
conquer me!
You have enslaved
my body.
You may never have
my soul.
You circle my cage,
like a hungry cat.
This canary sings to you,
challenges you.
**** me if you dare,
for our roles will change
in the next life!

my birdcage was a stuffed bear and my bird was a moth.  oddly the bird protected my sister from knowing she was molested and oddly its cage promised my brother he would again be gay.  oddly only because it was planned.  I was more spelled than born and consented often to being sounded out.  I carried with me a grey blanket that I held like a curtain when asked.  my eyes were peepholes I had to avoid.

Swallow the things that break you apart
You know you’ve done something terrible
Like swallowing pills or drinking alone
But you can’t quite figure out
What exactly you’ve done to deserve this
And the pit of your stomach is hollow
Like the poison doesn’t fill you up
The way you thought it would
Like it’s eating away at you instead
Like everyone warned you it would
But it makes you feel warm,
And distant, and numb
Something rattles in your chest
And you think for a moment
There is some sort of bird
Caged in the space
Between your heart and lungs
That maybe you’ve poisoned it,
Maybe its wings are pinned to your ribs
Or that maybe it will never sing again
And the worst part of it is
You’re probably right.

Tell me, my friend.
Have you ever looked at a caged bird?
They're quite like us,
Even though it sounds rather absurd.

The small bird is restricted,
Behind cold metel bars,
The same way that our ribs and skin,
Cage away our heart.

Maybe if you ponder the this theory
For a little bit longer,
The points of similarity
Begin to grow stronger.

Maybe you never take a chance,
Because you're terrified to fall,
If that is the case, My Dear,
Then fear would cage us all.

Maybe you're lover didn't love you back,
Or they could have cheated and lied.
You can act as tough as you want,
But you're heart is dying inside.

It's easier to hide in fear,
And pretend like things don't matter.
Because then you don't have to risk
Your heart getting shattered.

And even the most beautiful,
Or the ones with brilliant minds,
Don't always see what they are,
Because of the caged little bird **inside.

Tweet from the cage I hear,
blood is the common fear.

The sound on the edge of heaven,
minutes left are seven.

Trippin', fallin' down low,
my Angel, you're too slow.

All the colors are turning one,
black is the on you'll see run...

-

In darkness I am,
glad you don't have a cam.

For 'Dark' is my chair,
so don't you dare.

Go call me super odd,
at my side is God.

-

"No reason is makes,"
your smile just fakes...

Namaste
The divine in me
recognizes the
divine
in you

the part of me
that ashes her
handrolled cigarette
all down her top
on accident

who wears someone
else's black rimmed
plastic glasses

they're the wrong perscription
but there's no reason
the world shoudn't
appear a little blurry

hearts are farther away
than they may seem

behind the thin
layer of skin
and tissue

the fragile
birdcage frames
that protect them

If I were a zombie
I'd eat hearts instead
of brains

that way I'd know
what it was to taste love

I've had enough of people's
thoughts and opinions

I wanna taste the ache
for a change

and ingest the chambers
that held all your exs
and family
your friends

the divine in me
eats the divine in you

Tuesday's got a broken hot rod
It drives too slow, or doesn't go
Tuesday's got a lazy day ahead,
has creativity at best
has no productivity
but many things to arrest
And she's not only a loner
driving on a road,
she just doesn't want an answer
wants to keep her glow
Where is it?
Not where she thinks it is
Not in the trunk
not in the birdcage with the canary
not in the pistol in her kiss
Where is Tuesday going?
Not to Wednesday, that's for sure
Thursday's daydream makes her
unable to settle down anymore
She smiles, the sun is setting
If only Tuesday could learn to fix
that broken hot rod already

You at least went.
so that meant the party could finally be awkward.
that's homeroom
at your personal Harvard
your low self esteem was the head dean
[ claimed you had promise ]
then promptly vomits
but you promised to maim
your lollipops with hot topic's
most goth  night-shade of hemlock
iron-on, henna tattoos
for your thin lips.
like two gates
to a birdcage
where you keep
ravens...
pecking the tip of your tongue
where your brave words die
for lack of oxygen... pecking
the flesh off the skeleton key
to the heart of your insightful
comment,... stymied -
a black raven
savors the succulent eyes
of your hurricanes, so
braille maps for blind rage
fly off the shelves... fly like
led zeppelins to
fresh hell.
you lose your window seat
on the wing of a prayer
to Charles Bukowski.
now you're scowling a gilded smile
at all the Ed Hardlys'...
good thing you brought Jello Biafra Shots
to the shindig... cubes of gelatinous absinthe
each with a sugar box
lodged in supermax insecurity prisms...
fey emeralds.
monochrome rubicons
you pop
when cross.

like wainscoting the panic room
that came with a deejay
who thinks you're
a boy who got
lost.

I think I would like to make a home of your body
Like the dens I used to make with my siblings,
Before I started saying "no thanks".

To take a doctor's scalpel,
Clean and new and never used
And so very, very sharp
And to rest it in the hollow just where the breastbone ends.

Then to push it in along your soft smooth shiny skin
So unlike the mottled scarring that covers mine.

Down, down, down
To where you wear the waistband of your jeans.
A horizontal swipe at the top,
At the bottom,
Like making the fold of a window in a paper house.
Shh, is anyone home?

Lifting the heavy, wet flesh,
Your rib cage is so very white
And so very perfect
Like special cutlery for special occasions-
Births and weddings and funerals.

They hide your lungs,
Bloodshot and tired of the
Eternal
Moving and moving and moving on and on and on

Your stomach, soft
And vulnerable in its hideousness
Yet it hides the despicable necessity
Of human life.

And your heart,
Plump and fresh and young,
It is restless and strains
But for what when all that lies outside
Is incomprehensible and unnerving and unwelcoming.

So I will leave it all behind
And with damp heavy fatigue crawl
Into your torso like the unborn child
We have all been and will be again.

And your ribs will cradle me like a birdcage
That has grown so sick of the world,
And your organs will cushion and comfort me
When I feel that I do not want to live.

And blood will cover everything
Just as I have always wanted.
Flooding my eyes and nose and mouth and ears
And bathing me in the warmth, the constant gentle pounding,
That would make me feel alive.

You've got beet blood in your mouth and lies in your artichoked heart
you’re black eyes stalking through me
with a birdcage for ribs, that vultures trying to get out
it’s scratching your kidney wings
we’re no longer feeding ourselves, the raccoons are eating our dreams
pushing past our feeblery to keep them out, this morning I heard one sing:
there's a whole big world out there my son, be careful don't believe them.
there's a crazy old lady in the sun, she's angry can't you feel it?
if you don’t work hard you’re no son of mine, well I’ve earned these riverbeds
& I’ll drown you out until you’ve made me proud if you won’t learn you’re better off dead.
so, I’m digging in this farm yard trying to find the seeds
forgetting all I have left in this world of course that includes me
so I’m building and I’m learning and leaving nothing unsaid
all I am is all I have, I’ll take this garden for my bed
and these are not just words built like a city of dreams, we have no use for this kingdom
I’m proud of you my friends, may your lives be a symphony of freedom

I don't want to live forever. I just want to live for now
but the angel on my doorstep keeps pointing me towards that plow
so I’m digging in with both my hands, keeping one eye on the door
If I go looking I’ll probably find it, ...and get all I’ve been asking for

I don't want to live forever. I just want to live for me
but your faces just keep haunting ...sometimes it’s all I see
so I’m working hard at learning all I can I’m gonna give it all to you
I’ll keep making payments, until we’re all so straight and true

I want to paint seeds together, and follow you right up to the edge
filled up and spilling like carried cups, and watch the sun go red
but there’s poison right here in our water, and a shark somewhere in the well
I wanna show you my life, show me your life and tell me it’s not the devil
I guess I I feel the way I feel, you make me feel like I‘m alive...
and I’m alive, am I alive, i am alive so you can live...
please come and live, why don’t you live, you can live inside of me...
there’s a home for you inside me, inside of me there is a fire
inside my fire, there is more fire, and in that fire there is truth
but we take our furnace-chests, and run em neck deep into that lake
and let the coals stare us down, one last glare of doubt & hate
but we were wrong, no I was wrong, we’ll just be wrong about some things
and it will never be, it can never be, it should never be this easy
to wash away the fire that burns, we wash away our flame
my eyes saw fire, my heart said escape
i said my eyes saw fire, my heart did escape
it’s the beauty in the struggle has me going keeps me shook
sometimes I can see it in your face God but not in the pages of a book
and there's something in your eye that's asking
I got no answers, just clues for a path to truth
I thought it was you. but yeah, I thought it was me too.

I don't want to live forever. I just want to live for us
but the head on my shoulders keeps driving me to be careless
our brains don’t want to listen, ears squinting for some honesty
it’s gets slippery here, hold on....we are not ourselves probably

I don't want to live forever. I just want to live for you
but the devil round my doorway keeps singing me something new
so I’m listening with idle hands cupped tight around both ears
my minds open like a burned down house, I haven’t died at all this year

Orange hazards blink in gloom
Autumn mist in early light,
Traffic cones direct the flow
Attenuators keep it tight.
Through the mist construction looms
A mighty swath comes into sight
A structure massive, incomplete
Sweeps past the Birdcage portal light.

Burrowed deep within the Park
Surmounted by its stark white beams,
The tunnel curves towards the Bridge
To emerge near the Victory screens.
Symmetry in huge largess
Biblical in size and form,
Built by puny hands of flesh
Man inspired, conceived and born.

Columns in the concrete mass
Loom as sentries, side by side,
Level in majestic sweep
Through the tunnel’s corner glide.
Massive beams locked overhead
Cap the roof’s gigantic clasp,
Reinforced by gridlocked steel
Bound within the concrete’s grasp.

Mounds of blue, congealed wet clay
Layered in an old sea bed,
Hauled away from ancient crib
By Fletcher excavators red.
Roaring diesel truck and tray
Loaded overburden high,
Water blasted ***** and span
Keeping highways clean and dry.

Monstrous cranes with hanging rig
Lower weights of ponderous steel,
Gently to the tunnel base
Led by Dogman’s coaxing feel.
Urgency in every move
Hard hats drill with diamond core,
Fixing massive panel slabs
To the looming concrete’s bore.

Well below incoming tide
Pounded by the drenching rain,
Four inch pumps snake to the sump
Ensuring flood control’s maintained.
Foremen bark and keep control
Hard hats share a secret smile,
Safety first for every man
Think before you lift that pile.

Gate girls smile at passers bye
Politely chiding those who stray,
Holding up a halting hand
With trucks inbound in hazards way.
Smoko at the Bowling Club
Murmur of a hundred souls,
Grubby in their hi vis vests
Munching on the caterers rolls.

Morale amongst the working men
Is high because they feel the cause,
A project that is so worthwhile
They KNOW that it  deserves applause.
Traffic roars above it all
Passing in a steady stream,
Brake lights on the viaduct
Cop cars flash and sirens scream.

This project has a consciousness
A Heart, a mind, a soul.
And an inspirational spirit
Which guides us to the goal.
To eliminate the bottleneck
In Auckland's traffic day
And to streamline the system
Of our vehicular motorway.

Politicians snarl right now
Champing at the huge expense,
But by next year’s finish date
Congratulations will commence.
The jewel in the crown they say
Is found within our park of green,
The Victoria Park Tunnel, friend,
Is a true magnificence, to be seen.


Marshalg
Victoria Park Tunnel
5 February 2011

NOTE: I visited a beautiful country garden with spectacular surroundings. In one area of the vast gardens there was a section with birdcages. The birds were very colourful and beautiful but they looked sad. A group of children took great pleasure in screaming and kicking the birdcages. Across from the cages was an open birdhouse where birds could come and feed. That idea of being imprisoned on one side and free on the other inspired me to write this poem.



Hark! Hark! Hark!

Can you hear our croaking cry? Please stop and don’t lark!

Our beaks now harp the songs of lamentations
From deep within our slumbering souls which are walled up in damnation,
But once there was a time,
Yes, there was an Age of carefree wonder and rhyme,
Oh, how we sped across the milky white cloudy miles,
We small band of caged brothers were kings of the skies,
The waves of wind rippled and sang through our feathers
As we danced amongst the trees and mountain heather,
The morning sun would drip nectar and honeydew,
Our music surged with the dawn chorus and to a crescendo grew,
We were the ships of paradise floating upon the golden light,
We sailed through the oceans of the deep blue skylight,

Yet here we are now...

We birds of paradise confined to these narrow dreadful hell’s cells,
O, my brothers, you who watch and stare and yell,
Your kind dared to ensnare us and everyday in pain we play,
Our glorious pride and colourful lustre plucked away,
Where once we flew freely with our brightly shining feathers
Now we hobble upon the grimy ground like tattered orphaned beggars,
Red, green, white and blue
These are the colours that so impress you,
Our rich and radiant plumage now rusts,
Please help us with your love and trust!

You stand and mimic and mock,
Some of you search for stones and rocks,
Outside these bars you prance and poke,
What would it feel for you to bear this prison’s infernal yoke?

Outside our weeping cage,
There upon a tall pole there sits a palace as white as freedom’s pure page,
It is a painted birdhouse built high upon the hilly *****,
How it glows, this home, this bright beacon of hope!
The windows are without bars or glass panes,
In that lovely house slavery is a shame,
The doorway has no lock nor door,
It is a home open to birds both rich and poor,
Birds breeze in and birds breeze out and move freely about,
They flutter in and flutter out,
They sing here, they sing there, they sing everywhere,
They have the freedom of life in the very air.

Is it true?
Was it you?
How could the one who built our cage
Also create the open birdhouse across the hilltop stage?

Look to me and tell me true,
Hey you! Yes, you who kicks my birdcage and chews!
Please look here and not at yonder black crow,
Can you for real cage the rainbow?



©Rangzeb Hussain

I.
Identity?
For so long, I've felt like I had none.
I am a piece of college-ruled paper
ripped, torn, taped to a back alley wall
with names and dates and places
all written in a rainbow of Sharpies
by people with faces I cannot remember;
my handwriting with the cursive "f"s
nowhere to be seen,
words I'd written so long ago
buried beneath the influence of everyone else.

Who are you, when you're no one
except everyone?

II.
I'm sick.
I am years of not getting out of bed.
I am missed school days, late-passes,
a truant.
I am doctor's notes.
I am a pile of handwritten prescriptions.
I am one white
two orange
one pink
and two multi-vitamins.
Misdiagnoses,
tests,
exams.

My feet melt into the blue and grey carpeting,
my arms turn brown like the worn-down stain of the armrests,
the receptionist knew me by name
until "next week's appointment" slipped off the calendar.

I am episodes of crying in crowds
or crying alone.
I'm haunted by mistakes remembered only by me.
I am up or I'm down
without knowing what's between.
My brain leaves my body and I can't feel my hands
so the bottle of Advil moves up one more shelf.

I am told to lie on my medical forms
so I won't be held at arms length,
or treated like someone who's different or strange;
but that's just how I'm treated at home.

III.
I am nothing more
than the result of years of torture.
Two bra sizes too small.
Four dress sizes too big.

I am nothing more than a waistline,
which would be fine
if I had one.

I am not pretty enough.
I am not beautiful enough.
I am not good enough.

And I will not be joining you for dinner.

IV.
I push people away
but long for them to come closer.
I run, keep my distance
but, when you're not looking, lean in a bit closer.

I text boys 300 miles away
but pretend he's right there beside me.

I'm gullible, I'm weak.
I fall for anything, I fall for everything.
I forgive too quickly and I love too much,
I set myself up for the fall.

V.
I'm a disappointment.
I'm wrong.
I'm wrong.
I'm wrong.

I forget my chores.
I forget responsibilities.
I forget rules, I forget deadlines, I forget lines in the play.

I forget numbers and facts and formulas.
And when the grades come back
I remember
what a parents' giving up looks like.

VI.
I'm difficult.
I'm needy.
I can't drive,
can't make my own appointments.
Can't sign my own papers, can't run my own errands,
can't buy my own dinner,
can't call my own shots.
I'm difficult.
I hear myself say that I don't have a choice
But the sigh in reply says,
I'm difficult.

VII.
I love the wrong gender.
I swing the wrong way.
"I always imagined my daughter walking down the aisle
with a man who reminded her of her father," he says.
"I'm just disappointed," he says.
So I bring home a boy
and Mom says,
"Thank you -
I promise, it's easier this way."

Some girls tell their families when they find their first love,
but mine will stay hidden
in the box with the K
filled with letters and gifts and "thinking of you"'s
collecting dust between the wall and my bed.

VIII.
I am numbers, and numbers, and numbers.
Weights, heights, exes, mistakes -
too high.
Grades, standardized tests, word counts and successes -
too low.

IX.
I'm deluded.
Always telling myself that if Mom really loved me
she'd put me before the glass of wine.
Convincing myself that it's my fault
and that I'm selfish, petty, judgmental.
I'm hurt.

I'm hopeful.
Waking up to the overhead light in my room at 10
when Dad comes home from work -
asking me how my day went
and closing the door before I can reply.
I'm silent.

I'm lonely.
Clinging to the siblings of friends and partners
desperately wanting a family.
Constantly jumping from partner to partner
desperately needing a hug.
I'm alone.

X.
With all my shortcomings
with all I do wrong
it's hard for me to find when I do something right.

But of all the things I'll never know,
I know how to feel, I know how to care.

I'll show you passion like you've never seen passion before.
I've seen gods in mortals and mortals in gods,
I've felt fire inside me when it's icy around me,
I've painted the Sistine Chapel with the notes of F. Doppler,
I've sculpted the moon and the stars and the sun with my heart,
I've loved with the urgency of the wind of a hurricane
and I've forgiven like the sand did the Atlantic high tide.

XI.
I forget so much,
but there's so much more to remember.

I'll remember your dreams, your hopes, your ambitions,
I'll remember your tears on the sleeve of my shirt.
I'll remember the days of the sweet uncertainties,
bus rides and text messages and scarves and "good morning"s.
I'll remember the day my heart fell for yours
(ticking, ticking, like the bomb in the birdcage).

I'll remember the album with the songs named after planets,
and I'll remember when you couldn't meet my eyes to the lyrics.
I'll remember the confessions from the football field bleachers,
even next year, when there's an empty chair in the orchestra.

I'll forget all our fights, even the ones you never will,
and I might lose some of our laughs,
but I'll never forget passion at 4 in the morning,
or slow-dancing like middle schoolers at high-school dances,
or your body against mine to old SNL re-runs.
I'll always remember the times you let me in
and I'll be here in silence for the times you still can't.

I'll remember our promises
of dreams and forever -
plantations in Greece, Italy, Spain.
Love letters and presents hidden around our camp cabins,
four years of love, friendship, promises
dissolved in a haze of disdain.

I may not remember the quadratic formula,
I may not remember Newton's third law,
but I'll never forget how you make my heart hammer,
even when you forget me.

XII.
I am
forgettable, only wishing to be remembered by someone, someday,
sad, looking for joy in things big and small.
A hypocrite, begging for proximity then crawling far, far away.
I am miserable, but passionate.
I am identical, but a glaring mistake.
I am what-if's, maybe's, and might-have-been's.
I am quoting Jethro Tull songs in my confessions.
I am words in my head that will never escape my lips,
I am words on my lips that should never have escaped my head.
I am things I'll never say and stories I'll never write,
I am singing in the shower, dancing in the halls,
I am running across busy streets in April
and sleeping in screened-in porches in June.

XIII.
And every time I wake up alone,
I'll stand in the yard, look up to the sky
and remind myself that the sun, too, is alone
but can still warm the earth with its love.

I am your hostage
You locked me up inside a rusty, quaint cage
I can't move, I am tied
My heart's in hysteria, I could have died
I can't even utter a single word
My body's numb from this tight prickly chord
I have lost, I let myself get captivated
By romantic trifles that will never be reciprocated.

Cats and Birds communicate well. The Cat stalks the Bird and the Bird flees for its Life and then the bird is caught and killed by the merciless hunter. Now that's a pretty clear communication.  Birds are cats prey. It has caused a dilemma for me over the years because I love cats but I also love birds.

I already had two parakeet birds when I brought my first cat home. To remedy any conflict I put up a shelf and kept the bird cage on the shelf. The shelf was up high and I had to step on a stool to reach it but it granted the birds absolute safety from my two cats while I was at work or away. The second cat I got was a female gymnast that could jump high and climb anything but the shelf was not in her reach.

Over the years my original set of birds changed because they died, except for a blue colored bird that survived the three other birds in the span of ten years.  I named this bird "Bluebird."  Everytime a bird would die I thought it was sad that the single bird was all by itself and I would drive to the pet store and purchase another bird to make the world right.

After the third bird died there was a short lapse of time that Bluebird stayed by herself.  I noticed that Bluebird was not sad at all.  In fact, I never saw her so happy.

She started singing all the time and jumping merrily around the cage like she was having the time of her life.  She would go into the corner of the cage and do little somersault flips in the corner of the cage that were so funny and cute that I would laugh out loud when I saw her do it.  I would make a clicking noise to the bird that she would repeat back to me and at that point I just couldn't find a good reason to purchase another companion bird for my single bird that was so happy to be on her own.

At the end of the day when it was time to relax, I would be in the living room watching evening television with my two cozy, affectionate cats.  Usually pet people consider their pets their family as I did, and I started bringing the bird cage in the living room in the evenings so that Bluebird would spend time with the family.

It is perfectly alright to laugh at this because it is hilarious that someone would consider their cat creatures their family but I was sincere, single and loved my pets which have always been a major part of my life. Since I didn't have anywhere to put the birdcage I just set the cage on the floor against a wall right in front of me so I could see the cage at all times.

At first my girl cat would sit in front of the bird cage and just stare at the bird and watch the bird closely.  I would make an announcement to my cat that Bluebird was a family bird and not for hunting.

As time passed, the cat would lay casually by the bird cage and watch the bird casually.  Further down the road the cat would lounge and take naps by the bird cage, abandoning  the need altogether to watch the bird so closely.  The other cat stayed away from the cage and was not interested in the bird.

The cat and the bird started playing through the cage.  A game of tag was initiated by the bird. Now, in the evenings they played tag through the cage and I wouldn't have believed it if I didn't see it myself.

My twelve pound girl cat was gentle and careful as she pawed where the bird was chirping and jumping inside the cage and insisting dramatically that the cat catch her and when the cats paw touched the bird through the cage it was caught and the bird would acknowledge the catch by touching the cats paw with its beak and then continue jumping all around for the next tag.

They did this on a regular basis.  It was neat.  It was love.  It was fun. Sometimes when the cat would leave the cage and be heading a few feet away, the bird would make a lot of chirping sounds as if calling to the cat and the cat would stop, turn around and go sit back at the cage keeping the bird company.

The bird actually called the cat back to the cage to hang out.  I was never so brave as to let the bird out of the cage to play with the cat without the protection of its cage.  

It was just a pleasure to see the cat treat the parakeet bird as one of the family as the two of them became very good friends.

A Long Poem About A Cat
By Lynn Guevrekian

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Hellopoetry.com­

                                                 A Dream About Birdcage Walk

In the perfection of an impossibility
I was tagging along behind Margaret Thatcher
And Saint Thomas More; they were speaking
Of great and transcendent ideas

I asked them if we could go to Victoria Station
And look at the trains

you don't understand me
but do you even care to try?
let me introduce myself
i am Sam
born into a winter wonderland, at the peak of the Christmas season, with the smell of pine and gingerbread
my mother was a brown-haired beauty who loved as much as anyone could
my father was a diligent working man, who secretly was a head-banger
or not so secretly anymore
i'm the youngest of two girls
my sister was considered a basket-case, until she moved us all with her art
each family has a child with a problem - or is a problem
i had a brain problem, i couldn't operate correctly and no doctor could find the time to find my instruction manual... but they did fix me, at some point
after i was the guinea pig who had to endure test after test and all of their wannabe God decisions
i was the girl at school who people thought came from France
i had an accent, they said
i told them, no
i was born here, under the stars, my mom telling me that the sky was mine to see and create
they laughed and would walk away
i could see it in their eyes
she's weird, they thought
they kept there distance for seven years, solitude fit me well
i had friends, three i think
but they all eventually left, and i was alone again
but, when i was nine, i found a pen and a piece of paper
and i wrote about how beautiful the flowers were
and how big the sky seemed, how lustful the wind seemed, and how i thought it was calling me
my parents read it and smiled, knowing i had finally found the thing that set me free
i wasn't good at sports, but i was a real bookworm
preferring characters to real people, because  Harry Potter was the boy that lived
and if he could survive the dark lord i would survive school and all the mean girls that came with it
they didn't take notice of me till i was fourteen and i got contacts and a gleam in my eye
i started to carry a book-bag and wear make-up and i instantly became "cool"
but i did not want their friendship, i had tried to be there friends a million times
always being shot-down because i was a "nerd" and everyone knew it was bad to be smart
because you had to have a brain to be smart and you had to think on a daily basis
on more than what we just learned in the classroom
i'm now a freshmen and i have four years until i can be free
let go from my birdcage and just fly above the world, touching the stars and reaching my dreams
oh, hi
i'm Sam
i can only be
me

Written in the language of the hard hats and dedicated to each and every one of us who have endured this horrible ****** Winter weather*

Rain in gouts from June till now
There's blue clay mud forever,
Orange excavators ply
With sturdy tracked endeavour.
Lakes of water, turgid brown,
Are Swirling  with the flow
Of four inch pumps in overdrive
With ****** all to show.

Streaming rainfall day by day
As dogged men press on
To concrete saw and generator's
Screaming, nearby song.
Welders, under shelter, flash
Their lurid silver light
And ghosts of reinforcing bars
Reflect like day is night.

Mightily the ironwork
Descends by crane to trench
And snaking snout of concrete pump
Disgorge their load to bench
The magic of the bentonite
Performs it's subtle dance
And the concrete locks for centuries
As thunderous skies advance.

Knee deep in the morass
With perplexed furrowed brow,
An engineer is pondering
A sticky problem he has now
How to isolate contaminants
From mud to water flow,
How to guarantee the purity
As seaward tonnes of it does go

And still the deluge thundered down
Relentlessly it poured,
Day to day and month by month
Despite the plea's implored.
Relentlessly the hard hats
Bent their sodden backs to task
And forged a mighty work of progress
.... More than anyone could ask!

Amazing the endeavor,
Just amazing how they work
How men can face adversity
And simply will not go beserk!
How bounteous camaraderie
Generates between ranks.
When the hardship is shared
And the boss smiles... thanks.

For the roof beams are settling
And those deep holes begin
The tunnel takes shape
As slanting rain whistles in
And the big trucks do loiter
To idle there for a bit,
As the loud water blasters
Clear the clogged wheels of ****.

And the public all clamoured
To wait and queue in the stall
To watch and to witness
A quite remarkable call.
For the old Birdcage tavern
On that grim cloudy day
Promptly lifted her skirts
And slowly scuttled away.

All the glue and epoxy
And the rivers of nails,
And concrete trucks queuing
As the ******* flails.
And steel by the megaton
All rusted and twitched
And worriers worrying
Till the problems are fixed.
And the augers are drilling
In a great tandem arc
And nobody knows
Where the **** they can park!!!
  
Then the bright sunshine breaks
And the smiles all appear
And the work rate accellerates
For the way is now is clear
To inter that  dear old Vic tunnel
Down deep in the sod
Then you'll hear us all chortle
"We've ****** done it ...Thank God!"


Marshalg
Victoria Park Tunnel
3 October 2010

The trees are naked.
They look down on us
like scars.
And I'm ashamed of it.
While children were swallowed up
in angry soil
born in hungry war zones,
I was drawing finger bones.
I was painting your spine like river.
And I'm sorry.
I'm fighting the only way I know how,
because I never learned how to use these fists.
Girls would beat me up on playgrounds,
but now
their wombs have been stripped of their innocence.
Against their heart,
that broke out in tears when they stepped into the clinic.
But at least I'm doing more than just wishing.
At least I'm not sealing our sisters and brothers
in body bags.
I'm trying to leave an impression.
Because I met this girl
who had a voice like hand grenade
and I'm hoping my tongue
is like a shotgun
so I can hold it to the head of the hurricane
and tell it to stop.
I can't hear poems when you're screaming.
But I can feel the hose that you're beating me with.
I can smell the cigarette butts that breathed death into the lungs of brilliant girls.
I can see the scars that were left on the wings of the angels that are now men.
The trees are naked.
They don't like to be cold
so I tried to cover them with blankets of words
but they shrugged them off like snow.
I'm sorry.
I'm doing the best I can.
But I spent too much time scraping the skin
off of clouds with my fingernails.
And I found the place where God left us.
He never told us what to do.
But daddy said to be strong.
Don't cry Johnny.
Be a soldier Johnny.
Fight for what's right.
**** so you won't be killed.
Be a monster.
I knew women who wrapped their
prayers into telescopes
and went stargazing in steeples.
They claimed they could see God.
They said that their sons would return home.
But the only soldiers that come home
remain in caskets.
We're hungry.
And I'm tired.
You look as if you've been weeping like a willow.
I know my fingertips are raw
with words of forgotten anthems.
The trees are naked.
They're tired of mother nature being *****,
she forgot to take the pill
And I forgot what it means to be alive.
So I watched snow falling like ghosts
watched the streetlights turn into halos.
I poemed a river that was shaped like your spine.
I hope this helps.
Don't tell me that prose is useless.
Because that star strangled banner is
just a mark of shame.
We need some rain to clean the blood from our hands.
Need some heartbeats to make our music.
It's hard to read poems that are carved
into the  prison bars
of a birdcage,
full of our sisters and brothers who recite
Bible versus for parole.
We've been reading the lips of Death.
And it's about time we stopped.

birthed into a golden birdcage
safe behind upstanding spindles
endless nectars and suet at your beckon
knowing only the showcase of your plumage
and the sound of your tunes

layers remain
between you and the grackles
painted a nuisance
yet they stay unshackled
only poisoned and disregarded.

still they know the freedoms
not found atop
swings and perches
dig deeper
until you find what lurches.

the gate can be opened
when you realize yourself
to be the gatekeeper
yielding what's mine
using wings of more than feathers
making up for lost time.

looking back at the captivity
you couldn't see from inside.
entering a new world
with the grackle as my guide.

A beautiful day in February.
A few birds singing much too early.
A black SUV.
An awkward hello between
A girl and her father...
A phone call.
A surprise...
An absence of good news.
A problem.
A dismissal.
A tear drop-
A heart-tearing sob.
An unexpected fight on the way home to mom.
A car door slammed,
A front door key fumbled.
An avoided confrontation, also
An avoided consolation.
A soft noise bedside:
A scratch from
A cat come to investigate;
A simple, good soul.
A rub on a leg,
A pat on a furry head.
A purrrrrrrr.
A change of heart,
A fast ascension to a seated position.
A decision resulting in determination.


No more tears.
No coffee today.
No fights with the wrong side.
No wrecking ball of shame.
No tower of regret.
No birdcage of immaturity,
No, no more cages.

Daylight fades too quickly
and leaves you struggling like a dead fish
against a time limit you have no intention
of keeping or realizing, in even a small fashion.
The money runs out.
The money always runs out and
everyone is looking for a handout
no one wants to give.
Especially those who can afford it-
it's like a void;
a golden density not even light can escape.
Makes me wonder; "Is the money really power,
or is power just power,
and the hierarchy and patriarchy and system
just keep whatever stains in place, despite their incompetence?"
History seems to provide ample answers to the right questions;
Why does the day feel so short?
Why does retail labor feel like a pyramid scheme?
Why does work feel like prison?
Why are employers so scared of unions?
Whatever, right? Those ******* would give you an answer
after three separate commercial breaks and a survey.

Everyone views the person under their foot as less than human.
It's how we're able to procreate and sleep at night
[a night that comes quicker every day now].
A curtain over a birdcage; we're all just dozing off.
******* around.
Studying everyone else's face,
looking for a nervous twitch to decipher
whose bluffing,
believing we're doing swimmingly in our own *******.
The next generation built on our corpses, secrets and lies.
Corpses, secrets, and lies.
Let the world burn if we can make it past daylight.

The fingernails of my brain brim
Horizons of grime. Can’t seem to keep them paws
            Out of the dirt.

And the dirt lives on the ground, so its head is always
            Down.
And it claws like a dog spraying a groove under a fence
After he’s picked up in the scent what it would be like
To roll in the other grass, which is the same grass, but it’s
            Across the pickets.

It’s the uncovering, and it’s dead awfully hard.

For instance…

Thinking I must scratch sound to hear sound.
Not knowing, like this, of course there’d be only
That scratch-scr-scratch-scr-scratch-scr-scratch…
Around me like hellrats…

For instance, hurling my eyes at vision, only
That they should slam against something like stonewall.
            (And the crash, unscratched, unheard.)

Imagine how gravity would throw your skeleton
(Nest of forest twigs-become-tooth-pick birdcage)
            Ten, twenty      thirty stories
Meeting earth’s immovable bone—
That cold you’d feel crack your headrock—
            That concrete is my vision.

Yes, finish off the senses, finish off the lines.
If you put your life here, in this poem’s lonely glass,
            It will take its shape.
For isn’t that the oldest metaphor?      Life—water?

Yes, water with yourself these lines.

My brain needs to rinse me         clean from its hands.