Poem (Birdseed)
Birdseed It looks like the china disk with the little lip is filled with a watery sadness, twigs, and pebbles and tiny blue flower petals (God, I have already begun describing myself, not what is outside the window). Somewhere I have read that Being is Need. That's the way it is. With me. Yuck, like a bunch of cable TV lines, all rubbery like alien thought, or in my case like a birdseed trail to some pansy plot. Through a tin culvert the little mice are sluicing in delight. Eyeing the wall in several colors, I find it most peculiar that I am the only one here. The record player (whoops!) should be emitting something loud, like the Beastie Boys. I know all their names now (not the Beastie Boys) but theirs, everyone who is just about to hit the big time. I bought this special issue of Spin in the Austin airport out of despair, to learn about them. Out in the sunlight someone is painting all his furniture black, piece by piece. And what hav...