MILO, THE SHIT BIRD

Imaginary Garden With Real Toads--d'Verse Poets Pub

Oh SHIT, man!" said Jerry. "Something just went SPLAT on top o' my head."

Ben looked up. He heard the flutter of wings and a strange otherworldly cackle.

Jerry said, "What the hell was that, man?"

Ben stared at him, deadpan. "I think you've just been hit by Milo, The Shit Bird."

"Milo The Shit Bird...wha-?"

Ben fished around inside his lunch pail to find a paper napkin for  Jerry--the glob of excrement perched atop his buddy's hair growing more pungent by the moment. "He's legendary in this neighborhood. I know the people who used to own him. He's a Myna bird...they kept him in a cage most of the time, and he made it clear to them he wasn't happy with that arrangement. Then one day when they were cleaning his cage, he saw his path to freedom. Took off out the front door that had been left partially open. Ever since, folks around here have reported that they've been crapped on out of the blue--literally out of the blue--because he hovers over them and then it's bombs away, like he was the Enola Gay or something."

 "Geez," said Jerry, who was a poet. "That's kinda poetic justice. Taking it out on random people. He sees them as the oppressor."

"There's some inspiration for you, Jer," said Ben. "You could immortalize Milo, The Shit Bird in a poem."

"It is poetic when you think about it, man. We keep animals in cages. And because we think that's all right, we put people in cages too. Rather than, you know, trying to heal them."

"Sounds like you want to write about-"

"Man's inhumanity to man."

That's a deep subject, but if anybody can pull it off, you can."

Jerry had just about finished wiping the poo out of his hair when the two of them heard the flutter of wings again in the tree they were perched beneath under the noonday desert sun. And before Jerry could duck out of the way...

SPLAT!

Milo, The Shit Bird had struck again. This time the cackling they'd heard before was accompanied by: squawk...ASSHOLE...ASSHOLE...squawk !

"Jesus H. Christ!" Jerry cried. "Why'd he pick on me...TWICE?"

Ben had to stifle a laugh. "He knows your a poet, dude. He knows you're sympathetic to his plight. The only one who could put into words what many of the rest of us are thinking. Poets have started REVOLUTIONS, man!"

Jerry rubbed his stubbled chin, lost in contemplation. 

Ben glanced at his watch. "Guess we better be gettin' back to work, and find you some shampoo and a faucet to stick your head under."

"Geez," said Jerry. "That kinda puts into perspective what my real job is..."

 Ben closed up his lunch pail and gazed into the vast blue sky--the place where epiphanies that hit you like a water balloon chucked by some nasty middle school kids on a rooftop come from. He started off across the park. He turned back to see Jerry looking pensive and glassy-eyed. "You comin' man? he said. 

"Yeah...sure...I'll be along. I just got a lotta shit on my mind."

"Yes, my friend, I CAN SEE THAT!" 

"The world will know the saga of Milo, The Shit Bird!  First, an epic poem, then a children's book..."

Jerry was prancing around, shouting into the wind. Though just downwind of him was where you really didn't want to be. 

TROPOSPHERE

Poetry Picnic

d'Verse Poets Pub

There's wispy clouds 

morphing slowly into

some other shape--

some other beingness

right before your eyes.

Not like your life, which

does it behind your back.

The birds are doing strictly bird

things, they don't give a crap

about you and me, unless its to splat

some on top your head

And off the top of my head

I'm rehearsing what I might say to you

tonight, if you ask about her, and why

it all turned to shit so quickly, and

I'll just say that she was the

prima donna type, and me,

just a casual guy who doesn't sweat

the small stuff--and I think it was

'cause I didn't bow down to 

her, or even curtsy, somewhere

along the way. Not really knowing,

but banking that you won't be

the same, but hey...

Sitting on the porch, I spot

the feral cat who lives underneath

the house, heading off on his mid-afternoon

hunting expedition. And when I think about

moving from here, I think about

where would he go in this 

stark coyote land?
There's a bowl of water that I set out.
Never food. 

He's lean, but he's a survivor,

and I'd never want to turn
a wild thing into something less.

And I glance up at those birds on a wire--

heads down in a heartbeat--

and off to who knows where,

'cept that it's someplace else, as

I languish here, dreaming of 

Adriatic whores, and some way to 

attain that kind of altitude.