Bird Story

Bird Story -duet with a musician – 2001

The man got up that morning and decided to pack his bag. He had not planned a trip, he had not planned a journey. He put in his bag everything he owned with no idea of what he would need. Random nick-naks, pots he liked, sea shells he found at the sea shore. The sea was where he wanted to be, but he did not think of it or plan it as he prepared to leave the shelter of his miserable little house.

His mother had left him very well off after she died but he had not paid the bills. The phone had not rung for months. The only sound he could remember was the scratching from the pigeons nesting in his roof and the sound of his voice placed in his head, in this house, sitting in front of a fire where he had sat thinking and thinking of the meaning of life but had come up with little solutions, which bored, even him. He did not look back at his bedroom or his kitchen or any of the inner workings of his house. He did not lock the door or take the keys or leave a note for anyone to read. He picked up his bag, heavy with nebulous objects and walked out of the door as if he had planned a trip for years. He walked outside leaving patterns of departure on the dirt pathway. As he walked down the road he noticed that the dirt from the road was clinging to his boots. He sat on his bag to clean them. He knew that when he began to walk again his boots would again be soiled but he wanted to start out fresh and clean from top to bottom.

He noticed that he had stopped directly in front of his neighbor’s house. He had never met his neighbor but he knew that her name was Miss Patten and that she kept pigeons because they would nest on his roof.
When he finished cleaning his boots and was just considering starting his journey, Miss Patten walked out of her door and stared at him.

Miss Patten was an enormous woman with very big hands and a face, which looked as if she had never slept indoors. Her hair was cut short and stiff making no movement in unison with the wind. She kept staring at him as if she was alarmed to see him sitting so near her doorway. He had not spoken to anyone in such a long time. But the excitement of the journey ahead was so great that without even thinking he began to speak. And the man said….

Bird Story: The Man

This place is rotten with human spirit, that gray stuff your pigeons sit on occasionally when their wings give out is an expression of a hopeless state and is cropping up at their effort to take some rest.
I better get far away from here. There is little air left and the way things are going everyone will soon die.
I could find myself alone or worse, with the rest of the mud slinging cave men that claim the fame of being human.
I hate and it makes me stupid. I love and it makes me crazy.
The pain is real but clings like a small pimple on my ass. Why do you stay here? We could die?
We could suffer the worse death of all time and die a hundred deaths, Over and over,
Dying in order to be free
Dying in order to make peace
Dying and nobody will know.
I am going away to find some escape from this rat chopping ground.
The way the clock works is that it waits for no one to die.
Not even you lady. With all your freedom and rusty medal bird turd.
Bogged down
The rain will not save you
The thunder is not a friend; the lighting is a warning.
I have given these things a great deal of thought, alone in my miserable little house.
I have come up with nothing but my shoulder that you can crawl on and pretend.
I will give it to you for a bargain.
It is empty all of the time.
Not a shoulder you can lean on. Just an empty place for pretending to be complete and real.
We can go away from here to a place where everyone is resting.
We can discover new places where we can have deep sleep and hold covers closely over our faces and dare not look out. Did I say that?
Idiot poet drip. Silly pausing matters of dust.

Bird Story: Dialogue

P. What is it you want? Go away!
M. Can I see your pigeons?
P. Your fingers are too stiff to touch the feathers.
M. Really?
P. You collect silly objects and then wonder what pleasure you are missing? You have no love spot.
M. Yes I do have a love spot!
P. Where? Where is your love spot?
M. What!
P. Why have you left the shelter of your little house?
M. I don’t know.
P. I do. You are bored. You are bored because you have nothing to play with. You have nothing to play with because…. You have no Pussy!
M. I have no pussy?
P. You have hidden it in your body where no one is allowed to look and no one is allowed to know.
M. That is ridiculous.
P. You have fears like I do but you have no pussy to play with so you are bored.
M. I have not spoken to anyone in such a long time and now this.
P. Quit fucking with my head. Go Home!

Bird Story: Dialogue

M. You are an animal.
P. I am an animal?
P. Listen, it is a simple thing you have to do. Tug at your groins and let the animal out.
M. You bitch.
M. That’s right.
M. You are the animal.
P. I can tame the animal and you hate me for it.
M. After years of being alone and thinking, pussy has never occurred to me.
P. I am only trying to protect the rest of the world from your idiot, boring self.
M. So, you are on a mission.
P. Whether or not you have pleasure in your life is of no value to me. I could care less. Your thoughts are boring.