Monday, May 18, 2015

Journal 71 - Naked Bird Biblical Roads

The jungle is out there on the road again, out
there on the naked bird road again tweeting and
twittering like heckles and hydes jeckylling to the
toony bird tune of twelve tones syncopated pride.
The jungle stands with eyes n the trees and limbs,
eyes in the damp light breeze of the voluptuous western
wind, stands with music in its hairy ears and herbs
on its long skinny nose. Scents of backyard shovel built
farts harangue in limp afternoon snorts of another refugee
lost in the traffic of the modern man's man-made jungle -
there stands on the field there, there on the dried-up
football field, tiny footprints made with tiny cleted shoes
trample out-smoked hope and cures. Footprints of faded
feet trails away like an ancient galaxy turning blue in its
lugubrious retreat. Feet of mighty minds and sour men
careening in their circumambulating aimless wonder trodding
over nothing but images of the dawn when Adam first
saw Eve, or thunder when Noah first looked into the
water breathing winds. Faded images of yesterday's bliss
defecate on calculated theses and well-plotted afternoon
plans of life in fifteen well-worked years, well-termed
plans of life in parties and cocktails and morning tea
shooing away the flies and the wiping away the warm
snot from their well-worked clothes. I welcome the tardy
yellow smile from the barber's jungle, welcomed for this
is the apricot year when spirit-charged grouches will
sniffle and cheer with their tin garbage hat on, cheer with
the nose of a reindeer lost in the eyes of the slaven
stars, stick on their forced mathematical course like
sheep about to forget themselves in the neighbor's terminal
cave. The jungle is wet with black flashes of black
shiny light, painted on the side of its face like a big
subway after the circus comes to town. Drops of water
from the chamber pots of the demented evaporate before
touching the living evaporate in this pallid earth before
corrupting the minds of the youth. Beethoven sings strange
songs the poor in the palm pit of the man longed jungle.
Cross the winds with the sign of the Constantinians and
sing a strange song to the rich in the palm pit of their city.


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