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love, world wide dirt

Friday, February 1, 2008


i work two jobs.
the bird flew out of my hand.
i threw a net on it and broke its lungs.
it hissed at me til it died.
i work four jobs.
outside it snows, but
cockatiels can live anywhere, any condition, as long as they have a warm shelter to come back to.
they'll fuck, but she won't get pregnant if there is no nest to raise them in.
i work seven jobs.
two birds in the bush are better than one that's choking to death.
they have red cheeks like they're embarrassed, but they can't be embarrassed because they don't even know that someone else could observe their behavior.
too cold to dig a grave, so we eat him with spaghetti and Carlos Rossi.
i work ten jobs.
everybody knows this is nowhere.
i'm giving this to you on a golden platter.
the soup was good.
you hurt me, but he's dead, so.
open season.
i work thirty-three and one third jobs.

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