Tag Archives: bird

So you’ve decided to give me a call!
I don’t mind these little intrusions by the past, but there’s really not much I can do, darling,
and when I hear about your troubles, oh, they set me free.
I remember a time when just seeing your name on the phone was like siren lights in the rear view,
Stop whatever I’m doing, pull over, try to explain my way out of this one
You never let me off with a warning.
Now you’re telling me your heart is broken,
Well, I’m no doctor, but I’ve dabbled in the field a bit and here’s what I’d prescribe:
By yourself you’re a palace, all twinkly gemstoned walls and cool fountains in the courtyard,
You’re a statue, weathering the elements with a stone jaw and a torch held high,
You’re a mockingbird, dancing from twig to twig and laughing at your enemies,
But you never wanted to be any of those things.
Because a palace gets lonely with nobody inside, a statue can’t move its lips to speak, and a mockingbird has no nest of its own.
Well, all right, then, you’re going to have to nail down another (you were always on a cross but nobody was alone at Golgotha)
And I kill myself too much on a daily basis to make it worth the timber.
So you’re off to the prisons with your hammer in hand and the first one with a good flat palm is yours for the taking
And you never stopped to think
Two people is twice the weight
And all your strength is in your legs

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It’s been a pleasure

You look so young, she said and snakes rolled over the table, tree branches in shadow as the sun kissed the leaves green to gray to black.  Snakes stretched yearned for found her windows and raked them out saying I Need This! I Need You! And I laughed and said no, you should have seen me yesterday.

She’s not the type for a kiss with onion dome hair and bird foot hands but now I love her, now I’m inside her, now I see her bird foot hands in repose and her knuckles are bleached stony everests cresting secret fleshy valleys and clear glass webs.  Canvas stretched over bone and meat and talon and each impossibly tiny vein.  See her in those: cluster and fiber and freeway at hair’s width, where her grasping digits unfurled and stretched and warped and bled but underneath was never not newborn.

Now I’m making her breakfast: Toast

Now I’m giving her a synthetic diamond.  I think they’re neat.  I try to explain.  She calls it an excuse.

Now we’re bored.  We watch a movie.

Now she’s dead.

She’s asking me what I know about her life but it’s not easy to put those words in my mouth so I make up something about mine.  Watch her bird foot hands fill in a box, tap at a window, scratch in the henyard.   I never took her for the type to take flight.

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Marack Friesach

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