Monday, November 27, 2017

Feast If You Would Not Sing

I am not Tippi Hedren.
I invite the birds to pick me clean.
The crows, but also lesser ones --
The chickadees and piping plovers
Parakeets released against all odds
And yes the common terns fed often on the bubbling flats of Brighton Beach
By members (former members) of the Comintern.
Reptilian all.

Remarking that I draw the line at seagulls
Having yellow eyes,
As icy in their feeding
As a mantis biting off at once
The living brain case of a living fly.

A burial by air it has been called.
Dis-integration is another word.
But thank you birds I couldn't do it by myself --
I fed you nuts and popcorn
And you could have held out for Hartz Mountain,
Cursed the god indeed who made you scavengers
Condemned to play your silly tunes at dawn,
When I was hoping that the deepest dark
Would keep the silence
Til I made my peace
With this, my final passage,
Not forsaken,
Passed the chicken wings
And said my prayers,
Still corporeal
If not corporate.

Non-attachment to all things --
It was my mantra
When I was not focusing
On women if the truth be told
Most often in their icy, craven flowerings.

Perhaps the next time
They will draw me close
By asking without pretense
Why the hungry passionless robotic
Caged bird sings.

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