Little Birds

Little birds, when they do not want to fly hire taxi-cars on rental and roam around town for midnight ice-cream late-night fun flannel shirts and corduroy pants looking like lumberjacks and fox-hunters of acceptable rigidity of spine and spinning wheels that rotates changing position and time of sinning making a spectrum of rainbow sins elevators near mirrored walls going up and coming down after stationery origami ships of craft paper with thread and cardboard sails sailing in pails brought down hillocks by sheep named Jack and Jill killing time, time, so much time rotating gears shifting between worlds in varying speeds like a bottle of speeding cola little bubbles dioxide de carbon in French valency four – four Hydrogen for every atom of Carbon, hydro and carbon hydrocarbons in dreams of gray black and blue of the forest fire skies of the morning birds that sing slippery songs about eels and electricity conducted in the salt-water of oceans pushing airport trolleys with wheels and couch potatoes cut in long strips dried in the air kept salted and then fried in vegetable oil with vengeance arranged in neat rows inside little paper packets served with ketchup and burger buns tossed to perfection of crispiness with butter on the sides on hot pans that still sing stories in their songs clicking photographs of their long-lost love, how, oh how many toads must a hand talk down if you want to talk with your hands or if you want to talk or listen to someone else’s hand reading their palms predicting their future of four hours from now with mugs of frothing beer in front of you slowly losing fizz