Pigeon Shit

I remember being in a train station.

There was this pigeon

It landed next to me

like it was trying to impress a lady pigeon

Or something

It stood on one leg

The left foot had something on it

Something old

Like old gum

It looked diseased



The bird puffed its chest out big and grey

and green

and blue

and pink

If you look hard enough there’s a lot of colours

Even in the ugly places.

The bird was carrying the memories of a nervous traveller or an anxious waiting lover

Poor pigeon

Carrying all that human emotion around like a ball and chain

But he still puffed his chest like a god

Like a pigeon god of misfortune

A Hades pigeon.

He was beautiful in defiance.

He looked me square in the eyes

“you ain’t shit!

You ain’t nothing but pigeon shit!”

Brave little god pigeon.

We both heard the weight of your left foot

Missing the ground.



I don’t care if this one is bound for glory

I like the way it let’s me cut the earth

I bet the earth here is dark

Like almost black

I bet it hordes rain in moonshine mugs

I bet it sings country and things grow in a rhythm.


I like how I can sit and be a measuring stick

for Superman

Travelling backwards

I like the way the radio wires keep things grounded

The way they stitch fields to this bit of dirt and that

The grain is a collection of antennas

There are aliens up in those skies

Listening to growth like a rock song.

It is loud.

This life.

It is a loud thing.


And I like your soft touch.

I think when God made the word soft he kissed a piece for you to grow out from.

I think this whole thing would be better with a little soft divinity right now

And then every now after

Or as many as I can steal

I’m clumsy but I’m learning

I’m this close to becoming a cat burglar of moments

(Like that closeness between the sun and my skin close).


I have strange feelings towards solitary stars and houses.

Why would anything choose to live so far away?

Don’t they know about traffic?

And city living?

And what do they do out here?

And what happens when they get sick? When they die even?

Do they get internet out in nowhere?

Or do they use radio waves like my heroes used to?

I got a lot of free time here

And questions make it all dance a little faster I know most of the answers by name but I couldn’t pick them out of a crowd

Not unless they held big signs or

Something similar.


If, in my experience, is nothing but a soft ‘when


If they invent teleportation

I’d never use it

I guess I’m too superstitious

I’d rather wear a cross than dissolve to

Some place

There is a certain kind of magic to weight

And age

And time

I like effort

It makes beautiful things


Some days I don’t know whether I’m getting bigger

Or this world is getting smaller

I know there is a difference and it is important somehow

This world is still too big most days

But everything grows and is music and swells like music

And it is changing

There are people left behind

I know this much

One day I will be another one

This day doesn’t feel close

But far away can feel touch close

So why¬† can’t the opposite be true?


The man who calls out where we are

Never once says home

His electricity buzzes long after

I am gone.