Wednesday, July 27, 2011

Hummingbird Shits (The Way of Proper Social Collapse)



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I felt the wrong mix of whiskey and sugar in the back of my room, my head where there is a brew of bacon like a warm friend who has suddenly turned cold. I turned the faucet on to let the water run and to make sure it didn’t smell of the sewer (my paranoia had become something of a severely wasteful energy, like how I would shit in a salad bowl to make sure I was not impinging on the water’s rights and then stick the bowl in the freezer, having kept it empty of all the processed foods Pasolini wouldn’t approve of).

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La Mama Istanbul was my flyaday trouble in a scissor pant trooper war. I batted the other birds away from my eyes as they swooned and swooped around me like frantic tax lawyers in April. With each swat, they dropped and seized and stuck their beaks in the pavement, desperate to get back to China, the way the crow goes.

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I ate two large cucumbers as if I were a prostitute with a few extra bills to pay. I didn’t void them until the morning, when my body had brooded on them and found their points done for. In the morning, they kept their shape but not their color.

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I am a hummingbird. My shits are my honeysuckle sticks of pure bliss. I flap my wings and smile like I was an error-wrinkled message of confusion.

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Everyday I perform for housewives with cameras and stick around long enough for them to feel not alone.

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