Yesterday I told my students a story
about Gustavo's crazy cockatiel,
how Kirk the musicman tried to teach it
the opening to Beethoven's Fifth
& how it couldn't get that last chord right,
no matter how much they both practiced,
how the note always fell flat, but the bird
would say entonces, or coño, and include
all the tape recorder clicks & whirrs.
Every time I went: DA-DA DAA Dum,
the class bird catcalled and wolf whistled,
dirty danced on his perch, bopped his head,
all the tape recorder clicks & whirrs.
Every time I went: DA-DA DAA Dum,
the class bird catcalled and wolf whistled,
dirty danced on his perch, bopped his head,
puffed out his orange cheek patches,
and crested like a Mohican. I was
and crested like a Mohican. I was
explaining how some words fall flat,
the poet's job to seek the music of words,
was a matter of practice, like doing scales.
Unfortunately, the bird got so worked up
he catcalled the entire poetry hour.
I was hoping he'd just take the Fifth
(or maybe down a fifth) and shut up
before I threatened to squeeze
his sorry yellow ass into a tequila sunrise.
he catcalled the entire poetry hour.
I was hoping he'd just take the Fifth
(or maybe down a fifth) and shut up
before I threatened to squeeze
his sorry yellow ass into a tequila sunrise.
4/4/2009
Medusa's Kitchen, 2010
animal poem
(Later I found out his name was Mo.
Mo the cockatiel, we were twinned names.)
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