Tag Archives: wordsofbirds

haiku: 36 (unconventional haiku 1)

like a junkie

all my energy leaves me

3 hours after I wake.

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I Saw a Hawk With a Broken Wing and Everyone Was Staring (another draft (pending review))

I’ve read the things you’ve written,

not to say I don’t like them,

just not what I usually read.

I ate 3 eggs for breakfast,

pie,

potatoes,

green beans,

12 oz steak twice in 12 hours.

and not to say I know what I’m doing,

but I’m finding I’m capable at quite a few things.

Gonna try and make it to San Diego in two years,

get on that house boat and float around a while.

Some say money is trouble,

do things to help others –

I only think of myself.

Save another hundred,

pay some loans ,

do what I want.

I use to read these poems.

I use to when I was 14,

give or take,

short syllables,

lots of punctuation,

real emotion.

I use to think someday things would just go as planned,

I use to plan,

I use to plan to much.

I use to write everyday,

Now I’m not even writing.

Just thinking,

penning,

prose,

improper,

Unimportant.

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Haiku: 34

I want to go to

Pennsylvania to find the

knowledge of truck stops.

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Assisted bird suicides cause loathing

I sat there, match lit while pulling it towards my cig.
There they were….
Gliding around me, helpless prey
One landed upon my hand.
Glaring into my eyes, its yellow hues baffled me .
Taking the match from me, it struck it and edged towards me.
Lighting my cigarette, helping my eventual demise.
Neverending from the chain of one helping another.

Birds of a feather
Flock together.

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Haiku: 17

Sometimes I feel young.

I can smell lunchroom plastic,

and taste sandwich burps.

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Haiku: 16

bubblegum vodka,

amaretto, red bull, shots:

class at 9:40.

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A Little About Our Friend Patrick happyMess

Memo–

(quickly)

When I was in the very beginning stages of conjuring up the idea for this blog, (the whole “long nights, smokey rooms, whiteboard, sticky notes, blah blah”), I knew I needed to get Mess on board. I decided the best way to talk to him about my idea was to drive over to his house – a house fit for day dreams – ask him if he wanted to go get high, do a little shopping and generally bask in the beauty of the day before us.

Later, we decided to explore some railroad tracks and behold some local graffiti artists fine art.

We were edging along the tracks, moving outward over a creek, working on getting a souvenir when a train blasted over head and shook us to our bones.

After we built up an appetite, we decided to go eat some sandwiches. It was then that I remembered why I had made the trip in the first place and got down to business.

I told Mess about my plan (at this stage, a mere idea) to start a blog where all my friends could post their writings that they had laying around. I told him that I noticed, sometimes I’d write something and just set it aside, forget about it, move on.

I asked him if he ever had a similar experience.

He said he did.

I grew excited and went on. I told him everything, I started to sweat and grow loud and my eyes grew large.

He remained fixated, embracing my emotional collage of words, listening to me verbally dream of a place where voices came together as one. Everyone of different backgrounds, not knowing each others true identities. A place where there wouldn’t be a second thought of whether something would be viewed as insignificant or obscure because, at one point, it had been stashed away with no plan of ever seeing the light of day.

We went to his house, a house fit for day dreamers, and rummaged through some notebooks.

Pages were scribbled, torn, filled overcapacity – perfect.

He told me, having just found a new job (and being in love with a nice girl wholeheartedly), that he didn’t think he’d have time to post. I told him, that wouldn’t be a problem, I’d simply take his notebook home, type everything up, and post for him. For a minute, Mess wasn’t sure of this. I told him I wouldn’t lose them and I’d return them in a week. He said that would work fine.

I ended up keeping the first couple notebooks for a couple months (Mess wasn’t mad). When I returned them, and told him of how things were going, he gave me another.

This relationship has worked out quite well and he has been more than willing to provide notebooks for me to transcribe.

One thing to note; however, is that I not only simply re-write what he’s written, but in some instances I must go ahead and correct words, create breaks, merge half-works, form poetry from notes and basically just edit his works into readable passages.

Also please note, I never change anything he’s written. I merely help shape” it.

 

That’s Mess.

I hope his posts make some more sense now.

 

This is Words of Birds.

I hope you enjoy.

 

— Sangretti

 

P.S.

– if anything ever doesn’t make sense, not just on Words of Birds but life in general, feel free to ask and we’ll see what we can do to help

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