I work up early this morning to flocks of geese flying overhead. This is migrating season. It's a clear cool fall day, and I wish I were by the ocean or in the mountains.
So here's my lovey bird poem, written after Frank O'Hara (to prevent it from becoming violent and weird):
I've got to tell you
about living, singing,
fat-feathered birds always
I think of them on
blue mornings or at
sundown out the window
with love
in my mouth the tea
is always too hot
then and the breakfast
of blueberries and
cereal my Chinese
robe warms me I
need to tell you of
birds and look out
the window at noisy
trees at night
on 16th street the
top three floors of
Christian Scientist Church
glow blue sky and I
am lonely thinking of parrots
and the sounds they
make when bathing
I miss you always
at dawn lying in bed
the birdsong comes
in and the serenade
seems specifically mine
although you have
your California
birdsong and I do
not think of life two
months ago in the way
you said you don't
think of life two
months ago
no typing at the
computer I say goodbye
to Lester then leave
and comeback to say
goodbye again you are
eating dinner or coming
back from a run what
do you eat is it pasta
and did you at least
ad a few mushrooms it
is difficult not to speak
or birds and us
together you brought
me birds last night I
read a book that you
have read about
looking for self
in the wilderness
and the books I've read
and the poems I've
written of you birds
and the wilderness are
numerous everything
distracts me birdsong is
only everywhere you
know how it is when
you see something once
you see it everywhere
In other news, I am pleased to point out that:
My blog is worth $0.00.
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