In Philadelphia

“I don’t want to be a freakish fowl,” he said,
on the last day of the last trip of the city,
down from the Met where the Gucci sign is,

“You’re a 700mi a day bird,” I said,
looking over the last barb of the last feather of the coat;
his talons band-less, his eyes empty–orphaned no less,
the city is full of the homeless homing–

and there I was,
begging strangers:
the Asian couples, the Ohioan families of five–temporally of Times Square,
trying to raise the 125 dollars for the 125th convention,
for Thad, my gray speckled 30-ft pigeon,

for in Philadelphia, my bird would compete,
for in Philadelphia, my friend would win,
for in Philadelphia, my brother, would go free.

Greece: Six months after

A cog in the broadcasting industry;
I was there, and now, there is on my shelf
manufactured like a dollar candle unlit,
next to plush Athena and Phoebos,
books partially read, and 1500 pictures
last summer, good deal, had to grab it:
the candle, five dollars, the gods, five euros.

Only wires and air

And we bow down to these vaginal idols,
every moment of every day-
dream there she is–right beside me,
and I don’t even know her.
Such a pantheon to worship:
to assume there is a perfect goddess
is betting on Mercury
waiting, waiting for the return letter,
checking every conversation for an address to permanently live.
Oh! to be unmade by the batting of lashes and the curves
of roads that lead and twist and detour
signs left by others point, but behind
the wheel seems to be the only pointer,
pulling up beside a car zooming along to the same curves,
but a different road each time,
never to meet again.
Maybe if I collide and call Allstate, we’ll get to talk,
I could glance at her home address,
or at least she’d yell at me as we fill out forms.
It would be better than this
mechanism called radio with its chord-less voice
of only wires and air.