Birds of a Feather

SONY DSCOur daily class, everyone walks in and sits down.  From my perspective it is as though I’m not part of it.  This class is more of a show; we are all actors, everyone participates, if they show, we say our lines, and then it’s curtains close, and we go home.  Not a particularly big deal.

Sunshine always hits the West end of the building at this time of day.  Shades are never drawn as to assist with my healthy vision.

This was earlier.  This is now… And go on.  She floor-sat wearing next to nothing.  I hardly noticed.

Trash-bin at capacity with empty containers, which once held things one would think intelligent individuals wouldn’t consume at all.

Let’s preface by saying:  I brush my teeth too much.  That is where your health is at, in your mouth.  So keep it clean.  Smile, but keep it clean, floss, and such.

And these geniuses stuff it with processed garbage, and they forget to throw the garbage part away.  And you know.  I mean, at least they toss the plastic.  I digress.

Plastic wrappings, black, smeared, and stacked to a point sat just above the threshold of the reciprocal; a ballroom for insects unlucky enough to have no control over their lust for sweet refuse, and no adult supervisions, and probably not date.  I release my share of shit from sticky hands.  The wind blows at my face, as I am on a raised patio.  As a matter of fact, the wind blows at my back as well.  Now you have perspective!  The shade remains colder than summer, but warmer than winter.  And C*ffman Union, at least in the back, seems moderately docile.

My iced coffee fogged up the large sized cup it remained contained in.  Sticky hands grasp it… and the pen, and the napkin, and the bureau at my side.  Wet sticky hands, I am a child.  I fiddle and fidget to get nothing within it (bag).  Kind of an act of deception; I am not just staring, I am preoccupied with something else (or so you think), that something is not being noticed by you while I stare.  End Scene.  People-watching is performance art.

(Hunger Apathy,

By Terry Scott Niebeling

Girls practiced their lines across over the fountain.  They were in a play too, apparently.  Views and sounds from downtown floated in my direction, I could pay no attention.  This seems like a backdrop.  Something had taken the void inside of my head.  Food had finally started to take effect, or be processed.  I immediately became tired, careless, apathetic, and entirely not unlike just before the process of digestion had begun.

(Figure that tense, Motherfucker: Above sentence)

A small caveat:  Being hungry makes one not give a shit about anything ever, fact.  As if one gave a shit in the first place, that is a variable.  Tragedies pale insignificant whilst one is hungry.  I would say fuck everything for a slice of pizza, and I have.  I am addicted to pizza.  Zombies need brains; I need Supreme Pizza.  You know…  Villages have burned in order for my stomach to be satiated.)

Fuck… I went somewhere.  Let’s go back.

I may have been in East Bank, West Bank, or Saint Paul.  Wherever it was, I wasn’t doing something right, and people were displeased with me as a person.  That is just in general though.  The general idea-

City skyline affording not much, many have sat here and said the same thing, I am sure.  This kind of vantage is for the birds, or what is left of them.  I take their place.  Give me another poet.  This town has a few.  It needs more.  Give me a better view, more paper, a better pen, more fans that are actually just my best friends, and I’ll claim everything, nothing to it really.

A distant bird flew into view, then overhead, and SMACK(!) into an almost transparent wall of windows.

Oh man, this was hilarious.  Feathers trembled on the cold cement, the group of witnesses continued undisturbed.

Shadows crawled across the building ahead.  River smells, astray, but present raised to my nostrils and into the back of my mind.  And I just sat there thinking about how weird the texture of the sushi I had just consumed was.  Have you ever eaten a sponge rolled in sticky-rice?  They should have called it The SpongeBob Roll.  Needless to say it was almost filling.  No one died.

Yawning on the bus, earlier, as I rocked back and forth with the chasse, I thought, ‘I never thought I’d be here’.  I fell asleep for a moment, and then woke to a jerk of the wheel.  My stop was near.

Sushi gone, in my stomach; funny how you find while hungry you will eat anything, even with the threat of food poisoning (See: Hunger Apathy).

When in contrast after you realize only that it was a mistake…

Bag full of to-be-done-work, heavy.  Pressure, this dark drink awaits, as does a blank stare into a computer monitor.  Have I become careless or is that just the thought.

I need my sweatshirt.  Birds of a feather flock together.


About Terry Scott Niebeling

Hello, My name is Terry Scott, a human being with flaws. twitter: @sirterryscott Buy my ebooks:
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