Friday, November 11, 2016


Waiting for the paint to dry

I read poems by some old, recently dead guy

The sirens wail in the distance And I’m still salty about the election results

It’s going to be hot as dicks today

It’s always hot as dicks

As I grow frustrated with the monotony of this city

There’s always another musician, chirping like a hungry bird

Pay attention!

Pay attention to me!

I eat bugs!

I’m fucking hungry!

My story is really sad!

And they never realize: I am a hungry owl.

Who is trying to sleep off this day, so I can make a kill tonight.

What I see when I look at these hungry birds is beyond description.

It is not meant to be put into words.

In owl terms—

I want to maim their fragile frames,

then swallow them whole.

Where I will return to my nest and vomit up their partially dissolved corpses

To feed my ego

In misconceptions of the future.

from the other side of the harbor

somewhere beneath the growl of helicopters

I feel a vicious wave

rising in me like a tide

paralleling clustered the traffic patterns

 on an idle Friday afternoon


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