The Birdcatcher's Return

don't be embarassed, sit in the cross walk,
he puts the viewfinder down.
just keep saying to yourself
"i can't get lost, i don't know where i am..."

our famed birdcatcher
is having a half zen moment in which he misses his parents
and needs to find his own cave, virtually, simultaneously.
well, here it is, packed and shelved incorrectly.
he's been wearing more face paint than humanly possible,
and well, he's enrolled in love the university,
and dropped out of self indulgent sponge school 'cause,
i think what's going on here is,
he's questioning his divine bedness.

"i can't get lost, i don't know where i am..."

there is no such thing as fantastical,
but there is an imagination.
but there are no blueprints for it,
but he does have enough monies to buy water to sip...
and well, it's become painfully obvious
that catching birds may not be his visage of jesus
in the misshapen summer squash.
but the first thing that popped into his misshapen summer head,
"i can't get lost, i don't know where i am..."

besides catching cigarette butts in his teeth
and fighting with swords is much more of a money maker,
or crowd pleaser anyhow, but that's ok.
he's sitting in the soquel ave, n branciforte ave, mccormick st,
triple intersection to in fact be this point on the taurus.
remind me to see if that's feasible later,
remind me to see if that's feasible later.
and cop this particular hunch,
'cause our dear boy is a dream catcher now, and glowing.
why even the mail woman to be named later noticed,
or wait an earth-raping minute, that was a pizza man.
not to mention the twelve or thirteen afterschool children,
one of which had a trombone, and all of which found him funny.
so the last bird he never caught
got him a tony and cured his athlete's foot,
to mystery and the boat docks,
where something else might strike me as circular,
the middle.