I’ll schedule you in

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