Get your morning meditation out of my face.
I don't care about your fucking cardinal,
don't want to hear about your cattle call.
Who cares if the dog has a master.
Words, pious my ass. Keep your dreams
to yourself and your woodpecker, too—
any other birds you want to twist in here?
Warblers? Shit, why not an Evening Grosbeak?
I'd rather eat their warbling little heads
than read anything more about them in
your finely crafted poem. Take your drums
and shove them down your dove coos.
Stop forcing yourself to talk dirty to me—
grubs and worms, you're so transgressive.
Get out of my event horizon, stat.
Take your honey-suckers and your bark-
breakers and demonstrate your metaphor
on some other fucking plane of existence.
Sap? Stop pretending you're not full of
shit. You can't hide behind the husks
of "rough" words. You're right about
one thing: we miss the obvious, don't we?
Where there's skin and blood there's sure
to be a hawk or something worse
circling in the duh sky. Why not put him
in her brain? It's wider you know.
You meant you and she when you said
"we," right? You meant the love between you
was no less than a song, where a song
is like this transcendent superhuman thing—
you meant you like made love for hours
then fucked like bonobos, scratching
each other's backs and biting each other's
flesh, mmm mmm good. I'm sure she wants to
see your fucking cardinal light up again.
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