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Cannonball Statman
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Dog Science (East River Park)
On the ground, the crows are eating the wasps,
and the wasps are dying in the mouths of the crows
on the ground, at sunrise.
Kellogg's diner is under new management, my brain is splattered on my wall;
regurgitates a dirty blonde caramel syrup.
My friend Leora sings up a girl and boy trading spirits, spirits trading behind the tire swing,
levitating over basement cocaine nightmare metamorphosis;
Fashion Avenue diva, with the navel tequila.
Energetic vitriol, vitriolic robin stricken by the space between life and death,
and sometimes, I wanna live
on the ground, where the crows are eating the wasps,
and the wasps are dying in the mouths of the crows
on the ground, at sunrise.
Today, Greenwood Cemetery's anesthetized pigeons mourn in E Mixolydian overcast
over the extermination of a rat infestation in Brooklyn;
yes, you've gotta see it to believe it! It's a strip mall infestation in Brooklyn,
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and now that Brooklyn is a strip mall, let's watch the live execution of Brooklyn
on television (in flannel), on the Execution Channel.
Now, I wanna be my dog, but sometimes, I wanna be a tree
on the ground, where the crows are eating the wasps,
and the wasps are dying in the mouths of the crows
on the ground. It's sunrise.
I know what you're trying to do; I see through the smoke and mirrors,
and I see through you. I know what you're planning to do.
I don't know why, with your wide open window,
and your wild spinning mind, in the presence of the moon.
I have a murder of crows living in the attic of
my head, swallowing your venom,
and your venom will return to your head
on the ground, at sunrise.
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