“Since primeval times people have looked at masses of birds moving as one and wondered how they do it. The ancient Romans had their explanation: Gods, they believed, hinted at their intentions in the way birds flew. Scientists of the early 20th century, perhaps almost as credulous, groped for such mysterious and even mystical concepts as ‘natural telepathy’ or a ‘group soul.’ ‘It is transfused thought, thought transference—collective thinking practically. What else can it be?’ mused one British naturalist, rather plaintively, in 1931….” — “How a Flock of Birds Can Fly and Move Together” by Peter Friederici, March-April 2009, Audubon — Science
for ona & dylan…& jennifer
my dog and I —
poops and pails
gloves and wipes —
duck beneath an awning of grays and blues and the umbrella cover of darkness
as spills of sparrows, fawns and the fallen
recreate a vision from stephen king
oh, to walk amid the moving trenches,
where cattle graze on nettle nectar in the noon-day sun
like beetles and mites and an undulating blanket of accidental pestilence
thrilling in its hair-raising monstrosity
and set, too,
the piano string quartet of a forgotten b side of a faded memory of “somebody,
I used to be,” when mae and I laughed over quartered cornhusk dolls in our vitamin d-deficient star-spangled border malls, b&b attics across the way, caked with wet cobwebs, our grandmothers’ “soap opera weeklies,” and daria & jane promises
in a time before the titanic
that time she said, “I can’t,” running off with the life raft,
leaving me hanging,
leaving me now
all is dichotomy —
the recovering addict, ripe with hacienda hallucinations, still,
honey crisp magnolia floating in a halo around her dappled frame,
behind the fake christmas tree, giving off illusions of gravestone grandeur,
cuts a fresh vein for festive shoppers casually looking over their shoulders in over-priced l.l. bean jackets,
skinny jeans by fitch and curve,
scandalous aperitif tees…another fix, another sale,
they miss the punchline anyway
dripping with dubious small-town integrity,
maxed-out iou ledgers to the little guy
“something about clay pigeons,”
they mutter, in their game of hide ‘n seek, show ‘n tell,
dropping clever, rambling, empty brand-name, ambivalent conjunctions,
“to” and “from” conical, creamy fairground phalluses
and this is where I drop the fond
in her words of madness,
strung haphazardly together,
like over-ripen bread dough with the bits of dog hair,
cinderella croons on
a fallen angel
trying not to break
as she holds onto one last “c” note,
please, please,
remember me
this is december
to them
just one more slice of american pie
turn on the news
stroke the cat
fuck the neighbor’s wife
put away the dishes
make like you care
like this