Category: Poetry for mojo 14

adapted from the podcast of Hrishikesh Hirway with Rostam

before there were lyrics or corvids
there was a beat
and a songbird named queer theory

                              ~

          the original beat
                    is nowhere

                              two ruffs: one to love
                              you sweetly

                    to be found layered with grackle
                    vinyl punk

                    three brants and the truth
                    pitch shifted

                             one does
                             so discreetly

                    chase them through a pane
                    the light refracts

                              ~

                    no one can choose rhythm for you

                                        mix vocal
                                        chords unpredictable
                                                  and 70s synth
                                                            snare dynamics

                              hold the birds against the window
                              copy them measure by
                    measure–parts of your song
                                        are going to access different moods–

                              capture a certain energy
                    in each length of wing

harmonically dense
with double-bass and cello
listen for the hum of distant insect armies

                              like snap of hollow bones
                    at the end
          guitars and the trident

          circuitry and voltage
                    plume circling a coil

What am I supposed to do
in a world in which
phallic availability meets
atomic Scientology?
Where do fucking cupcakes go
when the sun
sets on the darkest mind?
If you must, place pearls
next to the sculpture
so he knows you’ve paid him.
To have or have not,
you’ll explore more
in Jackson County.
I met a black snake there,
on the backside of a sundail,
and whispered,
“Protect me from what I want.”

I am a drunken whore, which explains
the artfully ripped cleavage.
I’ve just started in on the sugar rim
lemon drop with framboise to fuel
my fabulous thighs. Last night I got a flood
of friend requests. They were looking
for anise flavored blow jobs.
I don’t really like anise, but whatever.
Sometimes I sit on the curb
like an uprooted dandelion,
a flopped fish. Dry red streaks
on my cheeks. I used to be eighteen.
Flamingos are such an unlikely color
and pose and creature on this earth.
Same with wombats and beavers.
Even sparrows.

Down at the paper mill, we’ve got pigeons.
They started coming around to eat cornstarch from the silos,
and there were more every day, until it got to be a plague.
They’d roost in the breezeway where we walk in,
take birdbaths in the drip from the unloading hoses,
lay eggs under the floodlights, use them like incubators.

Added to that, they have this buddy system–they call friends
until ten pigeons is fifty, is a hundred, is a thousand.
How do you get rid of something like that?
What worked best was when the guys on 35 machine
got pellet guns and had two pigeon hit-squads–
a driver, lookout and shooter–making the rounds in golf carts.

When the mill manager called an executive meeting
to talk strategy about “the pigeon situation,”
one of the supervisors, Rodney, said something was
being done about it, meaning the hunters on 35.
I don’t know how word got out, but people heard about
a bird shooting, made calls saying it was inhumane.

Company spent a few grand on a bird-relocation specialist,
who carted them all off safely. They were back in less than a week.
Now there’s more than ever, and since we don’t want to kill them–
pellet guns aren’t an option anymore–we just get out the water
hoses and flood their perches. They fly away if they see us coming,
so we wait until night, sneak up, and hose them down from behind.

because whenever my father wanted to spend time with me, he would take me fishing – and, for some reason, going fishing was always treated in our house, like an act of rebellion against my mother – who never minded that I got dirty, or wore torn jeans. Sometimes, she would plan to come with us – though when she’d describe the fifty pound lunch she wanted to pack, or how she couldn’t stand the smell of frying fish in her kitchen, we would bolt out the back door, wave triumphantly from the car.

then, after a full day of fishing and a bucket full of catch, we would come home to disheartened Mother – who fried up the fish anyway, and watched us eat – her mouth, a thin, tight line. And we would laugh and joke, and I would enjoy the fact that I was on my father’s side, joining in on the ravings about the deliciousness of the fish, though not quite as good as the salmon berries we had picked and eaten for lunch.

but, the truth was, I found the fish quite bland and smelly. And the sight of my mother’s hurt made my heart lurch. For some reason, I was determined to pretend otherwise. At least, that’s how I’d like to remember it.