Another Bird Song

May  sun  river  reflection     a perceived bright silver angle w/ which the
chickadee  sings  his  Thursday  A.M.  melody  going
on bird nerve & the primitive hunger of sound.
The notion of sound as gift    cottonwood down
downed in May on the ground under the dream head pillow so
Stuck in its insistence to follow its plan to mitigate this state we created. A
maple
tree   a perch for early brunch surely this
throat
bobbing  bird  has  a  tender
vibrato & a word for Thursday    but until Slaughter relents   it's only nine cheerful notes.

 

11.08.01 – Three days after the split I revert to a diet of cake & meat.

04.19.02 – Canada's flag half mast past the Peace Arch from our friendly fire.

07.17.03 – My binoculars scan the coastal mountains then WHOA!   A GIANT EAR!

07.23.03 – We hit a little bump in the driveway Ma says: Ow Pinga Jesus!

03.09.04 – It's a long swim to Cambodia from Hudson River Spalding Gray.

08.21.05 – Seattle license plate holder: Yard Work is for People who don't Kayak.

11.15.06 – Words Rebecca should not say in debate class: gangster, Jew and douchebag.

01.29.07 – In Texas a new center opens for the proud, the few, the limbless.

 

Frida One

 

Frida smiles and winks at the camera. Frida

after surrealism   after two abortions   after 1925

streetcar

accident and iconic unibrow Arreguin sees as blackbird wings

I think    after Diego and machismo in black yellow red tan dress I

am

not

sick   she says shot by her lover in color  never wincing as far as

I can see   conditioning an image eternal for sainthood.   I

am not sick – 35 operations – 2 abortions surrounded by skulls, penthidine, morphene, not sick says she

broken.

Frida Too

 

Frida, let your hair down.

Frida, don’t look at me like that.

Frida, leave Diego. Do not walk, bolt.

        Frida, won’t you steal the masculine hat of the accident

you called Diego and bury it behind Casa Azul?

Frida in living color.

Frida, festooned in Mexican reds

& blacks & tans, golds, yellows

y rosados y blanco rosas.

Frida, why was surrealism

            a Mexican breakfast

  while the feet of the wounded

  table bleed and you paint

  tendrils on your 1940

  image and only the skull

  smiles?

 

Frida, who let the spider

monkey loose to carry on

& live carnal dreams

alongside deer, turtle doves,

parrots – una familia

sustituta con el elefante

y la paloma, Diego y tu?

 

Dime Frida, de que color

            es la flor

en que tus cenizas

esparcidas en la selva

          se convirtieron?

 

Frida, tell me, what is the color

            of the flower

your jungle scattered ashes

                           became?

 

peN – for Subtext – 6.6.07