birdie chapter two

Work No Longer in Progress
Originally uploaded by relentlesstoil.

Mama thought it would just be best of we sat around the porch all day and kept away from the lot. Ernest must of told her about what we found there. He must have just gone right ahead and told even though we pinkie promised and everything.

When Ernest came down he wouldn't share his lemonade. "Birdie, you don't get no lemonade from Mama today. I told her what we found," he told me.

"You are a mean jean, Ernest Jonston. And I don't want lemonade anyway."

"Have it your way, Dirty Birdie." He sipped it. "Hmmmm....this sure is good. Man, I think I'm gonna go get some more."

"Look here, Ernest Jonston! You broke our pinkie promise and told and you weren't s'posed to or nothing. God is gonna put you in Hell for that. God puts people in hell for breaking a pinkie promise. I hate you!"

"Pinkie promises are for little girls. Anyway, I had to tell. When you get to middle school things get more important. You won't understand that kind of stuff." He looked all over the porch. "God won't send me to hell. Mama said so. The man who did that in the lot is going to hell, Mama said. Sure as she was born."


written as per request

For the King of May

Irwin Allen Ginsberg
Originally uploaded by clynt.

It is way past May First, but happy May Day anyway, Allen, the Kral Majales.
Your Prauge springtime has been filmed and framed in more beautiful light then Austin Texas.
1965 the springtime had you draped, coated, crowned, riding high and royal
on the back of a flatbed truck.

Where did all the 1965 flatbeds go, Allen? I deem that year of 1965 a new zodiac - Year of Flatbed.

In San Fransico guitars exploding outward the sheer tenacity of faith from flatbed,
the music of pure intention, a prayer to human in searing feedback and groupmind think,
power flatbed tie-dye backline amps by cord that dangles
from the corner of
wide open
third floor crash pad
windows.
Flatbed revolutionaries 1965, King Allen, King of May.

You, Allen, your words, your life exploded on the page.
Your mindfuck explodes orgasmic and spatters sex
and drugs and punk fucking rock on the clean white wall of America 1956, America 1996, America 2006.

Write what hurts, Kral Majales, 'cause we're at war this May and no one feels the pain no more.

And Austin Texas far from Prauge or 1965.

I was cold in the night

Inundación
Originally uploaded by Martina Flor.

I was in the middle of the night
and I was cold.

I was a girl, of course.

And I didn't like egg tacos.

composed by guest poet micah burke