Parrots - Hymie's Basement, F.R. McCloney

andrew broder:

memo to all recent autumn owners:

we, your landlord and employer,

have decided to start pulverizing parrots

in an effort to rid our fort

of the shiny vintage cigarette cases

they see their reflection in.

in addition, we have outlawed tug-of-war

to encourage the betrayal of chicken-head cut off instinct

and give in to the taking of determined walks

with a fox with black cherries

for eyes to burn holes through the books

that the parrots read and then said,

read and then said.

why?:

day traders wear penny-loafers sockless on sundays.

white undershirts, ass-tight baseball shorts

from the jag to the drugstore without popping wood.

«double dip of rocky-road.»

it’s understood,

these are men with all or nothing wardrobes;

men generally kept in closets on weekends.

stiffened by rigor mortis;

wooden men,

wingless in their wife-beaters,

wifeless in their little lives of wading.

waiting like an unwound toby robot toy

for god to reconsider gravity…

«quickly from the car to the cleaners

without being caught in our underwear.»