Haircut for Corvid

 

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Their shorn feathers fall

Like black snowflakes.

Short back and sides.

But Jesus, try getting the apron on them.

 

Caw caw caw!

Don’t go near them with powder

Or push the hair products

Even if they are at 50% off today.

 

Oh, and forget a tip

If all you have is lollipops,

Bazooka Joe and them

Go way, way back.

 

But what can I do

With a stone or a chestnut?

I shouldn’t complain

They help keep the lights on.

 

Anyway, I use the feathers

To soft pedal the night sky.

It helps me sleep

After a hard day’s work.

Imminent Jam

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English isn’t my first language:

It is the glossolalia of improving my mile.

Further.

Isn’t that what the man said?

 

Well, then, that always seems like always a

Hair further

Don’t it?

Man and woman alike can get tonguetwisted

 

Colloquially and in the finest farthest reaches

Of underpasses, townhomes and high-rises.

Eventually we trip over our tongues when the red light goes on.

By then, it’s time to get off anyways…

 

So knuckle under and buckle up, buttercup.

I’ll hold the steak knife to your supple chin

And by pray by dints, the glint on the blade

Blinds us all.

Earthbound

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A slack of stones

Metastasizes like boulders

Beneath your shoulder

 

Blades where angel’s

Wings sprout one silly

Cilia at a time.

 

Time. Can I borrow some?

I need a ride, too,

Don’t worry, just out to the

 

Quarry. How much junk

You got in your trunk?

It’s just that, lately,

 

I’ve been fearing

I’ll be gone till

Only the mountain remains.

 

Gravity’s a bitch

For aspiring seraphim

And cherubim alike

 

Though what passes for

Difference these days

Can’t be pried apart

 

By a feather

No matter how small

Or how silly.

 

So

You got that ride

Or what?

 

 

Winter Commute

 

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The engine turns over

But the belts whine

When its cold and wet.

Winter’s not over yet

 

Especially in the morning

But its only dew

On the windshield

Rather than frost.

 

The engine turns over

But the heat blows cold

And sometimes you don’t have patience

For this car, this job, this life.

 

The engine turns over.

But one day it won’t.

Tap tap tap. Click click click.

Or nothing at all.

 

Type B

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Born nameless without sin

We exit otherwise;

Meh, what can you do?

 

Live up to our names and sins

Or risk pissing off the Gods?

Better then being pissed on, eh?

 

Keep it moving Guthrie,

Your songs don’t play

On this jukebox.

 

From sea to shining sea

The gods burn upon re-entry

With nary a fizzle or kerplunk.

 

We carve ice sculptures in hell,

Fashion thimbles from granite boulders

With our bare hands.

 

Other times we nap.

Dreaming of names and sins,

Lonely as all get out.

Living on the Bus-Line

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I went down to the crossroads

To catch a cross-town bus.

There was swinging with great violence

In a benevolent cacophony.

 

But the empty pleading eyes

And the emptier pleading hands

Only seemed to say sadly

You have to sit through the whole presentation

 

In order to get a round-trip ticket.

But there’s coffee and doughnuts.

Except the coffee’s bad

And the doughnuts were gone by 9.

 

Wetting the tip of my pencil to gauge the wind

I remembered an ember can travel miles

Before being extinguished so I asked my neighbor,

Hey buddy, you got a cigarette?