rage fragment

The birds bother me because I can’t see

them, their small noises. A joke on twitter

is going around that when we hear their

singing, say beautiful, those birds are only

//

trying to fuck. What an urge, wanting things,

to stay alive, to keep being alive, to make

something out of ourselves: the birds smaller

versions of birds and us, well, just

//

a whole version. Fuck those birds and their chirp-

ing will to live. They bother me because I can’t see

them but I can’t tune them out. The longer

I sit here the louder the

//

louder the birds get the loud-

er the birds get sitting sitting still.

And I’m so angry again at nothing.

And it’s not the birds I’m mad at.

//

You know, you know, you know.

I want to make something out of ourself.

I want to make something out of nothing,

piece ourself together broken egg

//

shell. Where’s the snake? Eat

the yolk. If we find those birds their nest

you’ll eat the yolk. Crack each egg

smaller versions of birds smaller versions

//

of birds. What an urge, destruction.

Where does any urge come from?

Living, creating, being alone, sitting,

hillsides, the water. Where do the birds

//

come from? Breaking breaking shells eat-

ing birds piec ing together wondering

where did the bird go where did the bird

go and when did they stop making their sounds?

//

It is good to not see them, then. I’ll just

keep sitting and being bothered. Listening.

Being present. Oh, in the tree there, the sun hit

them. A blue one looks me in the eye to ask

//

Isn’t it a beautiful day? and Wanna fuck, wan-

na fuck, wanna fuck? I stare at the point of his beak

and answer, No, blue bird. No, I don’t but thank you

for seeing me. And yes, what a beautiful day.

This poem was included in my book "I want you to feel ugly, too," which can be read on issuu.

Read part 1 of this poem

Read part 3 of this poem