Bird Eating Bird Read Online Free PDF

of Grey on a paint can, not-one, single, solitary complaint. But in America when there is a purple house, it is sure to make a stink with the neighborhood association. And as sure as it will be a stink, it will also surely become news in the town newspaper whose name has wedded and is wistful for the once, great rivalry of Sun, Star, Gazette, and Intelligencers hurrying to report of the comings and goings of the town. And the paper will re-conceptualize the engagement for a wider audience, naming it, ‘a nasty skirmish,’ and then angle it, ‘stubborn, purple home-owner’ vs. ‘determined, neighborhood association.’ And the local-color piece will play in the Metro section of the Sunday paper people reach for as if reaching for their toast. And still then, it will not be mentioned how street lamps gauze the town over in purple, when the cool, dimming light of August approaches—houses, and sidewalks, the laundry mat windows, and laundry chiming in the windows of the washing machines, and suds purpling. And no one hurries to write this, nor bangs door to door for someone else to witness the phenomena. Nor mentions, however, still, in the dimming light of August, purple cascades even from pens; so somehow—even without volition—purple poems are written, telling of the world awash in plush, August light. And of the purple music box. And stars through the lens of the periscope. And lovers soothingagainst each other in the purple heat of August, leaving swatches of color on the sheets beneath them. And that, this purple light is a healing force that showers the tired townspeople, the homeowners, and all of the members of the neighborhood association, the farmers and contractors, hay-bailers and seed-handlers, newspaper reporters, and copy editors, managing editors, and publishers, layout operators, and laundry machinists, poets, and all of the readers who live in the town inside of that poem.

No quiero ya no quiero
    la sucia sucia sucia luz del día.
    lejana infancia paraíso cielo
    oh seguro seguro paraíso.
     
    I don’t want anymore don’t want
    the dirty foul rancid light of day
    distance infancy paradise heaven
    oh safe certain paradise.
    — Idea Vilariño

MANEJAR, 1–80 NEBRASKA
    Con latigo de madera, un joven sin camisa
     
    rechazaba los penachos de pasto de la pradera.
     
    Detras de él un tren cruzaba pararelo sobre la tierra llanera.
     
    El vidrio tranquilizaba todas las heridas altas.
     
    Bajé las ventanas y las brisas se pincharon
     
    a las briznas filosas de nuestro aliento usado
     
    que se habían desenrollado en la cabina del camión.
     
    No tener prisa para contarlo mientras manejaba ella.
     
    Abandonado, el joven volvía al germen en el retrovisor.
     
    Las pistas se caían a plomo hacia un barranco
     
    que se ha secado y el tren seguía hacia el fondo.
     
    Quizá la palabra sentida sería abismo.

DRIVING, 1-80 NEBRASKA
    A boy bare-chested with a switch
     
    beat back the plumes of the prairie grasses.
     
    Behind him a train filed parallel over the plain land.
     
    The glass tranquilized any loud wounds.
     
    I rolled down the window and breezes
     
    needled the wooly ends of used-up breath
     
    that had unspooled into the truck cabin.
     
    No hurry to tell the story as she drove.
     
    The boy went to seed in the rearview mirror.
     
    The tracks plummeted into a defunct ravine
     
    and the train followed down the hollow.
     
    Or, was the right word for it chasm.

WITNESS
    My cousin Sonny missions with her kids in the Philippines.
     
    In Pittsburgh, Constance and Reyanne come to the door. We’ve met before at another address.
     
    Through the lead-glass window: they straighten their scarves, teeth, when they hear footsteps clanging near the door.
     
    They don’t remember my stream-lined teeth, my globy lips or eyes from all the heads they meet.
     
    My cousin Sonny’s a Witness, too, I tell them. She missions with her kids in the Philippines.
     
    Down Atlantic Avenue, a year