On a sidewalk spackled with thick-layers
Of bird-merdre from feathered nesters above
The cars whiz past me with amplified echoes
& trains trudge-along causing violent tremors
The birds all flap their feathers in futile frenzies
At these perpetually perturbing passing sounds
Before they return to their roosts and perches
And its all right there like it is everywhere
The trains return to their stations time and again
Just like those dirty pshyt-spackling birds
The cars go here and there and always home again
Just like those circle-chirping feather-flapping birds
And I walk right under, and next-to, and over it all
With the cargo-clamor rattling and resonating through my bones
And the aural-automotive atrocities agglomerated to my footsteps
As my mind flaps and flutters in its futile furies
& the fallen fecal-filth I tread through sticks to my shoes
While I traverse the terrain between one nowhere and another
and I'm the same there as everything is everywhere
It's all just scattered pshyt and futile flapping
It's all going around in the same circles over and over
and getting nowhere else without taking the same pshyt
you walked out of right along with you
whether you go right back to your nest above it all or not
It's all the same clamor, and clatter, and chirping, and chatter
But then there are those few times
In a few of these very same places
When you find yourself somewhere
Or on your way between nowheres
And there you find everything is missing
The trains and their tremors are elsewhere
The cars and their clatter are between commutes
The birds have all flown away or been chased off
and the rains have rinsed away the spackled-pshyt
Then and there in all that abysmal absence
You find something so austere and obscene
That you can neither stay nor leave
Because your shoes will chase it away if you stay
And if you leave it will never be there for you again
I think that's why it's the same everywhere
All those fine places we try to stay must leave us
and all the places we leave are stuck to the bottom of our soles
or are lost to us before we ever get there
For all our dreams of fortuitous flights through sparkling/soaring skies
We keep awaking to some bridge above our own fallen feathers and filth
Where every local motion is a locomotive commotion
We can never stay
We don't know how to leave
and we don't know how to arrive
One day I'm going to learn to fly
and I'm not going to pshyt on everything beneath me
and I'm not going to perch anywhere near the cars and trains
that go from one nowhere to the next along the same paths
One day I'm going to fly away
from this bird-merdre bridge
and all the futile feather-flappers
Until the day I finally fly
I'm just going to practice proper flight
I'm not going to chirp and chatter
over the tremors and traffic
I'm not going to flap my feathers in futility
I'm not going to pshyt on everything below
So that on the day I finally fly
I'll be able to leave the bird-merdre bridge
To really leave it
and not take any of its pshyt with me
To properly arrive at someplace proper
and be able to stay there too
One day I'm going to learn to fly
And there will be no bird-merdre bridge
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