Airheads, Grateful Deads, Growing Parrotheads,
eat those spaces. Re-tweet, retread those lines. You can
fling worn words, sling them, beat, ding, ching,
overheat, fry. Go ahead, rehash them. You can
hear snow-men, wise-men, con-girls, wild-children,
torch-song the street, petite parakeet. You can
gyrate that heart break, flare your feathers. Meet
the strong-eagled man; he’s head-long for you. Can
you hear those street-red songs in your cage?
Kick your bird-song, Parakeet, and leap. You can.
