7.25.11 P.O.D. Coordinates: Pigeon Manifesto and Dislocation Express

When people say they hate pigeons, I want to ask them if they hate themselves, too
Michelle Tea. Pigeon Manifesto

This little matchbook sized chap is as close as I have gotten to a P.O.D. in Berkeley. (Thanks for the lend David Buuck, it will wing its way back to you soon.) Maybe Berkles is "too cruisey, slows them down". I don't know. But I almost wept when leaving SF today after work; a pigeon waited on the curb with me just before the light changed and we, wonky and mechanized, went in to the crush.

Even last weekend, a casserole, maybe a Hare Krishna leftover thing, was left out in the plaza below the Berkles apartment for like, the entire day, and there was no iridescent eating frenzy. Sad, bereft, birdless casserole. A tenuous, not entirely authentic desire to woo them to my roof deck, for then how will I walk barefoot after cheap wine at 4pm on the hot asphalt?

Pigeons are avian hobos. Hobos being these guys--Axis Dance teamed up with Dandelion Dancetheater to go a little steam punk.

(click to enlarge)

Hooverville, flying guitars and an overlay of internet dating narrative. Lines on the latter inducing an uncanny verisimilitude  as (if) I had written them just yesterday in my journal.

That and my own internal undersong of Blue, blue windows behind the stars, Helpless. To close the day quietly with the cat.