ON FIRST LOOKING INTO BIRD POOP

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I just had a chance to take a look at this book of poems I wrote which has birds coasting across its cover and which sports the title, A Renegade of Birds. A good title, though a bit inscrutable.

But about the poems themselves: if I hadn't written them myself I would think they're not so bad. But you know when you've been inside an idea or a feeling or a bundle of words for a while—that you hope to hell might express something coherent and maybe even meaningful—you can lose the ability to see the bloom that once was on it and you wonder whether the thing is worth anything at all. And you get a musty taste in your mouth and a disgust towards the whole business. At least I do.

Then again, as a bum I used to know would say when he felt philosophical: "You never know." Yeah, somebody might see something in these poems. Yeah. You never know.

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