lost you, lost you again
my fairweather friend
I’m making plans for next week
we’ll have brunch by the pigeons
feed them half of our English Breakfasts
and we can sit on a stump in the woods
and argue about nothing;
no, I’m tired of talking
change of schedule:
I bury my phone by the oak in the backyard
deep in the grassless mud and I walk
to the nearest gas station, maybe
I climb into the unlocked trunk
of someones car and I get out
when I feel it stop moving at a red light
and I run out into the forest to the hymn
of condensed traffic
I think about this
all the time
something about.. everything
makes me tired of talking
makes me want to live with little sparrows
on their little, happy, hopping feet
and their tiny, searching, curious eyes
something about poorly designed urban planning
and traffic and cookie-cutter-catalogue american architecture
and dead raccoon, dead fox, dead deer, dead cat, dead dog
dead man cut in twain staring at the sky, side of highway
the pink flower of vulture’s heads pecking
downward, downward
I’m simple really
I’ll make dandelion tea
I’ll crush berries with my feet
I’ll make a pie of pine bark and poison
sell it as Homeopathic
next week
