Wild Poets - Birdie

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The Journals of Wild Poets

Wednesday, 23 June 2010 21:27

(an undeveloped 49-cent mini-micro-novelette for the *modern American mind)

Recently, the navigational device - ostensibly set for home - went on
the blink on my homing pigeon. I call him Brandon, a sleekly bland
and unchallenging name for the twenty-first century. And Brandon's a
homing, not 'my homy pigeon, homy bird' or 'bundle of homy feathers'
or I might've simply called him 'yo, wahz up, dude.' But then, he's
young and never much home, in the first place.

Still, just awhile ago I needed to send a message - an old-fashioned
message. I stepped outside, Brandon in hand, aimed toward where the
message needed going, made sure the path was clear of harm - like
manslaughter of two or more stones with one bird - and cocked my arm,
throwing as hard and far as I could.

Maybe shouldna throwed so hard, at least that hard - or maybe Brandon
stopped off for an avian merger somewhere along the way, if he's not
too far left-winged for monopolies or too right-winged for love, that
is. Either way, I don't think he's back, yet. But then, like I just
said, he's never home much, anyway. Not surprising he's so darn
shiftless; he was a latch-key birdlet, has an obsessive-compulsive
disorder about a diet of sterilized bugs on a vegetarian diet,
themselves, and loves to chase woodpeckers, male and female, for no
reason at all.

Howsomever, I really didn't try to throw him away. Under the
circumstances, though, hum-m, wonder if I should get me another damn
pigeon, with at least a one-year warranty on his homing device. A
warranty not honored, and hell, I know a civil-suit lawyer good for
the birds. But just which of them lawyers ain't? (Ah yes, sweet
communication, of all stripes, sizes and shapes!).

Wel-l, enough about lawyers, though maybe one of them is exactly what
my pigeon deserves. A psychiatrist would be hopeless. Hey, how about
a New Age therapist? That's a thought. Anyway, gotta' be going.
Probably should go out on the stoop and check for dingblasted
Brandon. Don't hear no peckin' on the front door... damn bird!

* (A lot of people wouldn't even stoop to pick up forty-nine cents;
besides, this novelette fell plumb short of development during the
search for the modern American mind. Damn novelette!)

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