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I'm too wacky to be hip.

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      ------------------------------------ There was a large painting of Evel Knievel shaking hands with Richard Nixon. It hung in the Mayors office. Late one evening after everyone went home. I took it down to the lab. I zoomed in on Evel’s left eye a 100x and enhanced it. It was an address. I went to the address. It was a modest, 1970’s style, split level ranch home in the suburbs.

      ----------------------------------- Inside I found a dead parrot lying on a waterbed. I revived the parrot with some saltines and adrenaline. We became good friends. The parrots name was Randy. One night a few years later while Randy and me played Gin Rummy, he sang me a song about a fire. The title of this blog was never mentioned but I sensed it, and Randy confirmed it by giving me ‘THE LOOK’.

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          • February 22, 2012 12:40 am
            There used to be a white heron outside of my living room window. It would tiptoe wildly slow through the flowers whose names I never remembered. Every now and again it would stop, completely still, cock its head and listen. While I was driving on the turnpike today I hit a large white heron with my car. It swooped up out of the canal in front of me and I only had time to close my eyes, feeling the thud as it hit the front of my 80 mph hood. I opened my eyes in time to see the flash of spinning white go over my windshield. I felt terrible. Like some ghost part of the bird flew straight through me. Only to stay and ask painful questions. Why did I feel so bad? On the way to my shitty job that I desperately needed. Stupid fucking humans, bored out of our meager minds, smashing shit for all eternity. Why don’t we stop and listen?

            There used to be a white heron outside of my living room window. It would tiptoe wildly slow through the flowers whose names I never remembered. Every now and again it would stop, completely still, cock its head and listen.

            While I was driving on the turnpike today I hit a large white heron with my car. It swooped up out of the canal in front of me and I only had time to close my eyes, feeling the thud as it hit the front of my 80 mph hood. I opened my eyes in time to see the flash of spinning white go over my windshield.

            I felt terrible. Like some ghost part of the bird flew straight through me. Only to stay and ask painful questions. Why did I feel so bad? On the way to my shitty job that I desperately needed.

            Stupid fucking humans, bored out of our meager minds, smashing shit for all eternity. Why don’t we stop and listen?

            41 notes Filed under:  prose, bird brain,.
            1. reblogged this from hookersorcake
            2. answered: we got shit to do, man. Birds ain’t got shit to do.
            3. answered: Tomorrow. Seriously though, I understand.
            4. answered: Because the silence can be terrifying and humans can be cowardly.
            5. answered: Our bones, like our heads, are too thick. Hollow bird bones listen better.
            6. reblogged this from hookersorcake
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