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cc&d (v225) (the October 2011 Issue,



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Birds on a Wire

Jim Davis, Jr.

Let’s be real for a moment,
we only get it half the time, if we’re lucky. Let’s be
the stubborn coat of textured ice on the car window,
warmed by vents. This might be all we are
capable of doing, which is exactly what abstracts
our view. There is something wrong
with the treble. The radio is trouble, I could see it
if these damned headlamps weren’t broken.
If the ice didn’t guide me toward the hydrant.
The ashtray smells like stale ash, as if it were
becoming dirt. I think the idea behind it all
is the romantic portrayal of one’s own personality–
is that right? I’ve been told that
we are all, on a genetic level, 99.9% similar,
which leaves very little room to be ourselves.
These nights at the typewriter, these empty
bottles of wine, all the blue of the moon
that artists have painted and told of so many times
before, with purple tongues and teeth. Where, in this
thin sliver, will I lie? In the unmade bed?
On the flattened cushions of the couch? Where,
among the infinite consideration of stars, do I throw in?
And if we are only right half the time, I suppose
it is in the other half where we are obliged to lie.
Let’s be real, we all see the crows
perched incredulously on the wire, in the cold.
We drink the song of their reductionist
self-pity, how they wait to pick our bones
as line after line of traffic slows to a stop.
Their placement like notes on a scale.
The stoic pole, their clef.



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