1.

I don't have the heart the
heart to tell you certain things like how
I brood with fruit flies swarming around in my kitchen
sucking the remnants of rotten pears and I
haven't showered in four days because this is
as clean as I'll ever be (who me? yes
me)

5.

stuck to the soil
or concrete (if i am lucky?)
my duration, and you may
call it life if you want, will be
chalked out on the ground.

stuck to it, something about gravity,
the same thing that makes bird shit
drop onto
my car.

despite this,
and i say damn the birds,
my head is up there in the sky
isn't it? that must count for
something. (my car is clean)

cawcawcawcaw says a blackbird
(in english this is fuck you stupid human thing!)

and then, of course, rain.

4.

no wind, as two blackbirds
(I like to think they were
blackbirds)
perched symmetrically atop
a telephone wire saw
me

me, erasing their
brief, rancid mark of existence
them, drunk off birdseed and
chirping this conversation:

Bird A: There he goes a'cleaning.
Bird B: And for what?
Bird A: We'll hit it again in a few hours.
Bird B: If extraterrestrial life observed us, they
would think that birds are greater than
humans.
Bird A: It's not like we're cleaning up their shit.
Bird A & B: Caw caw caw caw caw!

the birds are right
they navigate the pristine blue firmament
while I, the humble farmer, scrape away
their feces from the limited ground

3.

bird shit tastes like berries
and stomach acid, and
i know this because
my hands my hands were slimed in it,

fingerprinted bird shit high gloss finish
          and, if you're careful (i wasn't)
          you might dilute the crust
          with water from the snaking hose
          that curls potentially around
          the corners and curves of your house.

wasn't it so easy
to pop my index finger between
my lips like candy?

weren't the birds whispering
something about damnable mr. snediker
ruining their art? the oil smooth feathers

preened prudent pride
of birds

ruffled suddenly, no wind
in the leaves.

2.

but the rain, the rain
never came (painful as
novocaine); I

wiped the bird shit off myself
arduous labor that I
later
appreciated, like a farmer
with his fields

Concerning Gettin' By/1.

I would've said,
"Yeah, you're right!" just to appease
you and to sustain
our friendship, but
I wouldn't have really thought
that.

But I would've played Ninja Turtles 'cause
I ain't no square.


--------------------------------------------


The clouds can't make up their minds
somebody keeps flipping coins and
they're standing up straight, not committing
to a side (in the firmament)

Firmly
we need some color in the spectrum
we need it imbued because
raindrops are like pheromones and I
am attracted to you
am attracted to me
am attracted to being productive (and green tea)

and
I am too lazy to wash the bird shit
off my car
myself (a little help, God!)

on gettin' by

of course the 90s
are cloudy to me now (and then, i suppose)

but what would you say
if some photo of us,
together, in 1995, surfaced?

like we were
best-of-friends
all along (along, along the I-40 corridor)
and you had asked me then,
what constitutes poetry?

i might have said
"poetry's for weirdos, man. can i come
over and play ninja turtles?"

and that, i think, is poetry.