Forget Magazine. Remember, Remember, Remember.

I'd like a bird to live on me
wouldn't have to name it

Far from the roots of doors
in a grass-skirt—-these same glasses

bestirred together (fromgether?)
by the landing-breeze of its claws

I'd spill food on myself to feed it—-& feeding
it would clean me (that might feel good)

My brain my thumbprint on a window high up
I'd not look out from nor in through again

I'd stand & chew in the grip of its orbit
unable to put a face or place to my name

No, Phil Hall and the Mothers of Invention.