for bird poets

in the same world as
exists
million-tome birds
also there's sewn
so many nests of
skrilla.

mini new money
millionaires tell
crooked crack rock
mountain passes:
steep road to
road candy
and shit. shit.

i haven't seen a chicken in
sixteen months
but i seen one stitch in
a dude's boot
'at was rockin'.
you know who--
what beard what eyes--
schoolin' you bird-cabbin' bums.

there's a chicken
there.
that's my bird.
'cause
when a chicken wears a boa
that's skrilla.

when you stitch a chicken in
a boot
and rub it
that's historic--
Welcome To
beautiful bright orange
food fuck
dribbling from my
presence on
to your rhymes.

i believe it was a drowning
Tippy Hedren
or maybe Rambo who
once wrote of
the zilch we feel
when we write.
you feel that?

that's just me, stitching
chickens upside
your head.
that's just me, cracking yo'
hollow bones with
crack tablets,
stealing your throne,
now i own yo' ass

steep crack mountain pass
like i said before
like the stitch i sewn
you the bitch i thrown
to the birds
like a fucking gerund form
of the verb:
flying
flowing
owning.

gone.