when the last bird to wear wings
plucked out its feathers
to the drumbeat of falling bullets,
the grass stems unionized and declared
a dictatorship of weed:
we, as flowers of circumstantial evidence,
grow the daisy of derision to become the sky,
the cloud from which the sun
peeks in embarassment.
not the winged parasites of freedom,
we refuse teasing the grounded,
weaving flight for the nondreamers.
thus, the righteous bird fell into a skinning stew,
and we no longer heard the sound of flapping,
our ears lost in the monotonous rustle of the reeds,
buzzing with the mosquitos.
on the softened earth, our back rests well,
questioning waking and allowing me to yawn out:
maybe, this is the night...
12.18.98
(
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