the slant of these words

In fall, we notice swarms of homely birds
that in formation travel farther south;
their calls become the thoughts we would reword
and echo sharpened phrases from our mouths.
But sometimes we will find a lonely pair.
Meandering ‘cross the currents of the wind.
Then when they twine together in the air,
we're galvanized to act on thoughts of sin.
And fall will always be the time of year
when summer bliss gives way to frenzied flights
of birds’ (or lovers’) ever-present fear
of their discovery in the fading light.
When wingbeats mesh to form a fraying quilt,
our heartbeats crash; they cause our world to tilt.

note: this is not the final version; the file with the final draft of this poem is on a different computer.

six thousand roaring fans surge to their feet;
The fishbowl's inhabitants carve out their comrade's disintegrating flesh; skeleton on blue gravel.

He walks alone down the corridor, beyond all his lovers'
open doors. Do wondering ghosts wander here in secret, trailing
sibilances through the silence? No matter; he
passes them all, ignoring his shadow on the wall, its deadened leg dragging below
a crooked head on its crooked neck.

Where is the grandeur of nature
in brittle yellow grass?
in green-white aphid spots
preying on the necks of roses? and
There is no subtle beauty in
molding leaves stretched taut on spiderwebs, no
Enlightenment
in the vertically-impaired skies
bearing down on
the tops of tuftless trees.

No sign of Wordsworth's daffodils
or sleepy-winged, sharp-eyed kestrels, or
eagles, or falcons
slicing majestically through the air; just

the nests of the sparrow colony,
smeared across the junction of
perpendicular planes,
regurgitated insects mixing with
excrement
far below.

and it might be calming,
but I know what you are;
You are no P r i n c e C h a r m i n g

(only through light;
 only through light) .

FOR THE GLORY OF
the gory sights caused by "democracy;"
from sea to blood-drenched sea,
let freedom ring.

When I tell people about my pet birds, they always assume that both are female. I guess this is reasonable, as my birds both have girls’ names: Olive and Rosie. When I tell people that I have one girl bird and one boy bird, they assume that Olive is the boy: “Short for Oliver, right?” Well, no; actually, Rosie is the boy.

Do you know, when you pick out a bird from the nursery of Feathered Follies, an aviary in Lafayette, you have to pay forty-five dollars—in addition to the $125 cost of the bird itself—to find out the sex of the bird? My family decided to forgo the extra cost, and we named Rosie for his rosy cheeks—stupid, as the natural coloration of peach-faced lovebirds is green with a pink face. Olive’s name seems perfect for her; everyone in my family agrees that the sound of her name seems to personify her loving, matronly personality. Rosie, on the other hand, has, from the very start, been somewhat of a misfit—even his name doesn’t suit him.

We had Olive for a few months before we bought Rosie. This means that every day for a few months, Olive lived all by herself in a big cage with no company until I got home from school and let her out to taste sweet, sweet freedom. Olive really likes me.

She is incredibly loyal. After spending every afternoon together for so long, the two of us have developed an amiable rapport, equal parts friendship and mutualism: I supply her with food and water, and in return, she viciously bites the people who have slighted me. She also lets me scratch her neck, stroke her wings, and occasionally, lies flat on her back in my hand, feet sticking straight up into the air, and falls comfortably asleep.

Rosie, however, had very little real human contact after he left the nursery at Feathered Follies. Since he was put into a cage with Olive immediately after we brought him home, he never had the opportunity to form a close bond with anyone, choosing instead to associate with his fellow lovebird within the barred confines of his cage. Even now, he avoids being held and will only occasionally step onto someone’s arm or hand.

Another quality that differentiates Rosie from Olive: while Olive is perfectly content to stay either in her cage or perched on someone’s shoulder, Rosie is constantly looking out of the window at any birds flying across the patch of sky visible to him or resting on the backyard fence. When Rosie is let out of the cage, instead of docilely stepping onto the offered finger, he flies immediately to the window, confusedly bumping against the clear glass as he tries to escape and join those other flying things he sees outside. If he were actually allowed outside, however, he would still be an outcast, as lovebirds are native to Africa, and thus have no relations in North America. Rosie feels trapped and restrained as a pet, but can never be a wild bird either.

And so it goes: the bird with the awkward name and the dazed look in his eyes is always unsatisfied with his status as a pet, anxious to escape from his cage; but neither does he belong in the wild, flying with untamed birds under a cloudless blue sky. No flock, no home—this bird is truly a lost soul.

What is a bird? I like to think of them as feathery, winged creatures that fly through the sky, dropping excrement messily and carelessly on the heads of innocent passersby.

Of course, this is a sweeping generalization, a real oversimplification of what birds truly are. Birds are indeed feathered (unless they are terminally ill) and winged (unless they are…well hopefully all birds are winged), but they are also magical, multifaceted creatures that bring much beauty to the dull, bleak world we live in. For some people, birds are tiny, twittering beings that frequent backyards, often coming to rest on trees, fences, or bird-feeders. For others, they are exotic, colorful creatures dwelling in the tropical rainforests along the equator. Very small children are routinely left speechless by these mystifying creatures, only occasionally able to gurgle nonsensical phrases (“Ooh, purdy” and “a boidy”) as they toddle after pigeons in a concrete paradise, waving their arms like the sails of a windmill.

In addition to the idea of birds as literal, physical creatures, they also have many significant metaphorical meanings. For example, birds have long been considered metaphors for armies, because of the great numbers and intricate formations in which they fly together. They are also comparable to knitting, because of the similarities in appearance between a skein of yarn and a flock of birds. Furthermore, the entire class Aves can be considered a political allegory, with magpies symbolizing capitalists, cardinals representing communists, and swans exemplifying monarchs. In addition, birds can be seen as a symbol for the societal trend towards increasing sexual freedom, as a bird is unhindered by social restraints and confinements as it flies off into the pink sunset. A sexual implication is clear in the many shades of pink visible in the common sighting of large flocks of birds against a rosy sky at sundown. This symbolism is furthered by the traditional reference to “the birds and the bees.”

In current times, the bird has increasingly become a fixture in everyday life. This is clearly evident in the recent, amazing invention of the rubber duck. The origins of this bright yellow, rubber bath toy can be traced back to the 1930s, when Americans flocked to exotic locations (Maine, Vermont, and Utah, to name a few) and purchased many souvenirs featuring this rare creature. Eventually, the duck began to symbolize the wealthy, luxurious lifestyle that the American middle class sought to attain, of which boldness was a key element. Rubber ducks were, most assuredly, the absolute epitome of boldness—after all, it’s not as if they could be made of plastic or styrofoam instead. Despite the irony of ducks being hunted nearly to extinction in decades-old video games, millions of people continue to indulge in extravagant bubble baths with only rubber ducks for company.

Now that the bird’s position in society as an important symbol has solidified, it can only continue to grow stronger, extending its sphere of influence over more and more people. Scientific studies (such as the pseudo-avian MagnaBird) have predicted that by the year 2010, popular fashions will include feathered pants and winged blouses, and the dance of choice at parties and weddings will be “the Bird.” Despite their innocent appearance, birds are, in actuality, ruthless despots seeking to conquer the world.

Among the brightly colored macaws and lorikeets, the pink and white cockatoos, the toucans with their long, multicolored bills, there is one parrot that stands out from the rest. While the other birds jump excitedly from perch to perch within their cages, squawking loudly at anyone who passes, this parrot sulks quietly on the floor of its metal-barred home, scarcely glancing up at the customers. The species of this bird is unidentifiable from its looks, as its body is pink and bald, plucked clean of the bright feathers it once had; only his head remains thickly covered by dulled, navy blue feathers.

The majority of bird owners have good intentions. Occasionally, however, someone buys a parrot on a whim, without researching the obligations that come along with these pets, and then can’t—or won’t—take care of the bird. A once beautiful bird’s health quickly starts to dwindle in the conditions their neglectful owners keep them in; often, parrots are left without sufficient food, clean water, or attention for days, weeks, months, or even years. Sometimes, they are even kept out of the light, shut up in the cramped space of a tiny, dark closet—a cruel attempt by humans to block the cacophonous sound of a neglected bird’s squawk. These parrots, starved for both food and sunlight, suffering from poor hygiene, and receiving no attention other than the occasional berating shout, become severely depressed and develop the nervous, self-destructive habit of plucking out their feathers. Only the feathers of their head, which they cannot reach with their beaks, remain intact.

The cruelty and neglect of irresponsible bird owners does not affect only parrots’ physical health and appearance. Parrots have very large brains relative to their size, and require from an owner loving attention and companionship. Birds in healthy homes enjoy playing with their owners, doing tricks to amuse people, and even simply being around humans while they read, eat, watch television, or any other activity. In return, they require love and attention from their owners—much the same care a child needs from his parents. Just as a child will suffer emotionally if his parents forget or abuse him, a pet bird becomes confused, depressed, and resentful if its owner does not show love and compassion toward it. Lack of friendship causes considerable emotional trauma to these birds, who often can never live a normal life again, even if they are rescued and placed in a beneficial environment.

This generic case does not represent the severity of the cruel treatments that some birds suffer. In one extreme case, a drug addict received an African Grey parrot as a gift and kept it in his closet, only opening the door to “feed” the bird by giving it cocaine and heroin. Eventually, the sick, underfed bird was found and taken by animal welfare services to a parrot behaviorist. At this point, the bird was not only featherless from nervous plucking, but also misshapen (the ends of its wings had grown into the sides of its body) from spending years in a tiny cage that, by the time of the bird’s discover, was filled with a solid, eleven-inch layer of excrement. African Greys are very smart birds, and possess the ability to “talk,” or repeat all speech it hears. When the bird was brought to the parrot behaviorist, it started saying all the things it had heard while trapped in the addict’s home, including the comings and goings of drug dealers, the screams of the addict’s wife as he beat her, and the verbal abuse that was yelled at the bird itself.

Birds who have suffered at the hands of their ruthless owners retain the effects of the abuse long after they are rescued, and the case of the drug addict’s African Grey is no different. Even though the parrot was taken to a loving new owner who cared for him and kept him well-fed, it died a few months later, as its liver had suffered too much damage from the drugs it had been fed. In other cases, mistreated birds are suspicious of humans for years after their unfortunate experiences; a parrot that was once tame can turn on humans, biting and scratching viciously, after being abused by an owner. Also, once a bird has formed the habit of plucking its feathers, it often continues to do so for the rest of its life, even after its removal from an unhealthy situation.

Many people who purchase a feathered companion do not realize how much their actions affect their pet. Abusive owners scar innocent birds for life, ruining the optimistic outlook that is comes naturally to these creatures. Even birds that are not deliberately mistreated—sometimes, an owner is just too busy during the day to play with their parrot—can easily become depressed. If people did more research before buying a pet parrot, if abusive individuals did not seek an innocent animal upon which to exert their wrath, there would be fewer horror stories about the maltreatment of birds; there would be fewer sulking, plucked parrots haunting the aisles of bird stores; there would be fewer wounded, dying birds wasting away in abusive homes.

Let’s contemplate birds. You know the type: feathered, flies through the air, hit it as hard as you can to score points…you might call them birdies or shuttlecocks instead.

Badminton is a sport that has been played for millennia. An early version of the game was popular in ancient Greece; similar games were also played in ancient Egypt. Modern badminton is played in almost every country around the world, and in some places, badminton champions are even revered practically as gods.

But let’s think about this some more. Under normal circumstances, wouldn’t beating something with all one’s strength be considered, perhaps, an expression of human nature’s cruelest and most violent tendencies? For example, if a father hit his child as hard as he could, the police would be contacted, the father would be arrested, and Child Protective Services would swoop in and take the kid to a safe place—a foster home or an orphanage. In badminton, however, such violent actions are not only condoned, but encouraged: one cannot win a game without ruthlessly smashing the bird at the opposing player. Thus, in the noble sport of badminton, the bird has become associated with ferocity and violence; it has become a sublimation of man’s innermost anger, which society has forbidden him to express in other ways.

Other types of birds are even more associated with immoralities. Consider, for instance, the offensive slang term “birds”—or, more popular in some places, “chicks.” These words offer an alternative to “girl” and “woman,” which are too specific, and “female,” which is too formal, too scientific and impersonal. However, as many feminists will argue, referring to a girl as a “bird” can be offensive. As humans believe that they are superior to all other forms of life, comparing a human female to another animal is seen as derogatory and crude.
Even more offensive is the hand gesture known as “flipping someone the bird.” Most people recognize the simple action of extending your middle finger from your closed fist as representing a number of related profane expressions. The “bird” has become a common, versatile gesture, capable of being used both casually, between friends, and with a serious intent to harm, between enemies. This crude gesture is more than just an expression of one’s annoyance, frustration, or hatred; on a deeper level, it demonstrates mankind’s internal inclination for harming others. Just as the badminton birdie is a subconscious expression of violence and the slang term for girls, one of superiority, the bird as a pejorative hand gesture reveals a hidden want to hurt people.

Of course, we cannot forget the creatures that the term “bird” is most often associated with: kingdom Animalia, phylum Chordata, class Aves. These winged creatures are frequently cited as being beautiful, majestic, or elegant, part of the grand mystery of undiluted nature that humans long to preserve and protect. How then, did violent sports and vulgar gestures arise from the name of these awe-inspiring beings? In what way are birds, the flying animals, related to birds, as in girls, or birds, meaning the profane hand gesture? These new meanings of “bird” don’t even have anything to do with the original definition of, roughly, “feathered, flying animal.”

Because of the lack of similarities between the characteristics of the original birds and these various symbols of human immorality, there is only one explanation for their sharing the same name: despite this outward statement of admiration of and fascination with birds, however, one must consider the multiple morally objectionable connotations that have arisen from these creatures’ name. The truth is, birds have come to represent people’s anger, violence, and feeling of superiority over all others—in short, these beautiful creatures have unfortunately become symbols of the “ugly parts” of human nature.

For my everyday prince:
At dawn, let's escape together from these
Adolescent-curfew confines and instead,
Watch the sun rise.

Good times.

-----

My everyday prince:
Let's spend today
Revelling in the special joy of
Everyday things:
Goldfish behind the smooth glass of crystal-clear bowls, and
The red-pink-purple of churned berries in blenders.
And drinking coffee with breakfast;
And speaking love with temporary goodbyes.

You know, the kind you repeal with a "hi."

-----

Dear everyday prince:
When melancholy, please read:
This life is the best one I've had so far;
You've made it thus, and
I hope I've made yours the same way.
Love, yours truly.

(Please stay.)

-----

To my everyday prince:
Forgetting shadows is the best part of each day.
And to slow down, wait up;
never fails to amaze.
This is the part where you say,

"Thank you, in every way."

Or maybe just--
Maybe just wandering:
feet and hands and minds and--
Hey, why don't we
Rest here a while?  Why don't we
Sleep, catch some smiles?

No need for be-mine-valentine's, no need
For oases.
And the desert sand between.
Just you and me and a run-away theme, a--
a Different kind of dream.

We can rhythm and rhyme,
for the moment or
All Night.
We can beat out a time, or
have a Great Time,
the Time of Our Lives.

Maybe--
Maybe just.

Needing turns to having;
Having--to needing.

Hey.
Goodnight. 

Life in your veins:
Wasted. wasted like
the alcohol consumed, the fiery burn of
liquor, sliding down your throat, escaping through
Your pores, your breath, your much-too-hearty laughs.

Intoxication.
we meet at the between place, the middle way where
hearts tear in several different ways, into
Several different pieces.

We are one…
two-three-four—images blur together and apart.

Apart and together.

We swim with each other, in this
Haze, this laze, this
Alternative way of living our days.
Laughing our lives away.
laughing our “lives” away.
living our laughs the wrong way.

Wrong Way.
Blaring colors on street signs, on traffic lights, on
the wane and fade of the glow on our skin,
on unhealthy pallors in too-bright clothes, on
Wrinkling away spirit in Wrinkled up suits and ties.

Wasted. 

It is not visible as I gaze at the pond from afar. It is only when I walk nearer, up to the water’s edge, that I see the dead fish, hidden behind a large, smooth stone. The rest of the pond, the plant-life around it, and the ducks and geese swimming along the surface of the water remain undisturbed, apparently unaware of the dead creature at the water’s edge.

In nature, living things are oblivious to the death that surrounds them and to which they will inevitably surrender. The ducks that live near the pond carry on as they would if the fish was not there; despite its presence, they still swim, dive, eat, preen. They seem content to float peacefully on the water’s surface.

Humans, on the other hand, cannot seem to live contentedly once they are exposed to the idea of death. After they realize they will someday die, they become determined to change this final result, to delay the aging process and postpone the day of their death. Middle-aged women spend hundreds (or thousands, or hundreds of thousands) of dollars on facelifts and so-called anti-aging creams in the hopes of preserving their youth for as long as possible. Scientists and researchers slave away at their laboratories, searching for the cure for cancer, the cure for AIDS, the cure for Parkinson’s disease—ultimately, the cure for death. It takes my mother twenty minutes just to apply her various eye and skin creams; it takes my aunt almost an hour to apply makeup that makes her look twenty years younger than she actually is. Halting the aging process is an unnatural goal—the length of one’s life matters less than the quality of one’s life. Personally, I see no point in living a long, empty life; I’d rather not drag out such monotonous mediocrity, thank you very much. I’d much rather enjoy the uniqueness of each passing moment, even if I experience fewer moments overall. The majority of the world’s population, however, seems to disagree with me. Every day in the news, there is an article about man’s latest attempt to bring an end to this phenomenon called death. Scientists toil in man-made labs, artificial environments that hide them away from the wondrous beauty of nature and of life—and the beauty of life from them.

Sitting at the water’s edge, watching the lifeless fish float gently back and forth on the slight waves created by the wind, I notice that the fish is beautiful even in death: even in death, its skin takes on an iridescent green and pink tint, its colors flickering as the sunlight passing through the leaves flickers on its lightly speckled flesh. I am saddened by the thought that, even as I gaze upon this creature, there are people in the world working against death.

On the far side of the pond, a small group of ducks has waddled out of the water onto the grass. They quack and flap their wings at each other; the rapid fluttering of their wings seems playful, their calls like mock-boasts carried across the water on the wind. Just minutes ago, these ducks swam past me, past the dead fish drifting in the water below me, yet they still find the energy and excitement to interact with each other so lightheartedly, so delightedly. In general, after humans come across a dead creature, whether a fellow human or an animal of a different species, they retract into depression, into a lonely confusion in which one gloomy thought dominates: “Am I going to die?” The answer to this question is, obviously, yes. All living things must die someday, and man is no exception. Once people realize this, the question changes and becomes, “Why must I die?” And this question plants the seeds of an idea that blemishes the quality of one’s life.

People nowadays are so obsessed with prolonging their lives that they fail to live their lives to the fullest, to attain the potential happiness that life has to offer. How can we appreciate the wonders of the world if we are only pay attention to the cheerless thought of our own mortality? What meaning do the milestones we encounter throughout life hold if we can only think of the final milestone—death? When a person with such a bleak outlook on life looks upon an elderly man, does he feel pride and a sense of contentedness at the achievements this senior citizen has accomplished? Or does he instead feel a sort of grim depression at the ancient old man’s impending death? Society’s somber perspective regarding life leads to a pessimism that takes the joy from “joyful,” takes the cheer from “cheerful,” leaving us with only “ful”—full of despair. Instead of focusing on the impending death that awaits them, people should live in the present, and the wonder and beauty that can be found on the journey of life; it is not the end result, but the process, the knowledge and experience collected along the way, that matters most.

Life is exciting, every day different from the one before it, but if it had no end, this excitement would be somewhat dulled, taken for granted. Life is beautiful precisely because it must someday end. Those who seek to find a cure for death, a way to hinder the aging process by which we mature from infants to children, from children to adolescents, from adolescents to adults, will find that they spend all their time and energy praying for an end to the very process that infuses life with such variety and delight. Why waste a lifetime of beauty trying to delete the source of this beauty? People should focus less on their inevitable death and more on living in the moment, just like the animals found in nature. Like the ducks that are unaffected by the dead fish at Oak Hill Park, people must learn to overcome their fear of and aversion to death.

We are peace-seekers,
Looking for peace in the sky;
Continuous growth.

Someday when I die,
I'll go someplace nice,
but not like heaven or paradise.
More like temporary, or a waiting room, or
An airport terminal,
where I'll stay for you until we can
Start over and
repeat this whole process.

Someday,
When I look at these inkblots,
I'll stop seeing princesses running away.
Instead,
I'll see the good things in life, like
Every kiss, every aubergine sky.
Every time we said,
"Good Night."

And just so you know,
The love in my heart isn't like the moon in the sky:
It doesn't wane and fade and then come back;
It stays.
And never goes away.

empty hearts like birds in naked trees
we are the best thing you've ever seen

we live like sparrows, from
       Heart to Heart, like house to house--
Ordinary (as in Invisible).
small things come in twos and threes;
Some days, I think the sky has been taken from me.

Sometimes it all gets so confusing--
       what's right? what's wrong?
They have no concept of beauty.

Breathe with me.
Be as we;
Constantly chronically displaced.

And now I'm counting syllables (all simultaneous);
Five.
       like points on a star.
You and me, we are who we are.

You and me, we be, we be.

Pretty
    without pain:
       something we cannot
                            will never be.

and when is a rose not a rose?
and when are we not we?
    in Dreams.
    we can be whatever we want, which is
    not always what you see;
    we be.

We see.
We notice things you cannot.
Why! why.
          are we so.
There are no words for what we are.

Desperation.
Turns to Inspiration.
lack of love does not equal lack of life;

However unpretty,
    we still be.

silently we stare
through time at past happiness;
closed eyes speak loudly.

flowers
for a beautiful world.

Not this one.
If ours could talk, it would sigh,
and grieve with the pain of seven billion hearts
and weep for this miserable "alive."

Someday I will leave this world
in search of another,
a place where you and me,
we can be

Alone Together.
have you ever heard such a beautiful lie?
...neither have I.