screaming motorcycles
encircle my house
triggering a fear
of the dangers of
daring to be young
again
on top of that
all the birds
a round here
are refusing to
co operate
i remember leaping
over the handle
bars and painting
the street with
several inches of
my fore head skin
(i did not say
fore skin)
the she-male house finch
inserted it’s face in
the bird feeder (w)hole
where it stuck
to comical effect
except it was dead
one motor cycle
in particular
sounds like a
dentist’s drill
while the others
drown it out with
their incessant
shift ing
(i know that that
doesn’t make senescence)
hop ping limbs
like ladders
the tom boy finch
refuses to look
me in the eye
accusing my
slothful style
of deferring spring
all i ever wanted
for christmas was
the pride of a
bloody lip and a
gaping (w)hole that
once up on a time
was my two front
teeth
a scourge of thirteen
neck and fist tattooed
alien starlings
wearing ray bans
threatened to take
every thing i own
before turning away
on mass (as) they
changed their
collective mind
that gear box scar
runs from my old
neighborhood under
bob’s big boy buns
all the way to
my present left hand
thumb which was n’t
protected by my
sixties style
white helmet
hammering jammering
blinking and blanking
the god damned!
chickadee task masters
are shoving all my
best ideas in to
someone else’s
chimney
they aren’t even real–
meaning authentic–
meaning tangible–
meaning dirty–
meaning real–
bikers–
just paunchy dads
drinking foster’s
australian for beer
in cans
i think i’ll stay
in side to-day
unless that
miniature hawk
comes back
with my
glasses