P.O.D. -- Palomacy to save us all from the tech bro aesthetic.

So, this article

Open letter to the tech bro who spat at me, from that pigeon eating a noodle on Market Street

--which was not just funny, but a good look at how some facets of humanity deal with small, common animals who are perceived as easy targets, low, and expendable--lead me to Palomacy, Pigeon and Dove Rescue and Adoption Agency.

PEEPS, how did I live in San Francisco and not know about this place? Maybe, if I had adopted a pigeon through them everything would have been different, maybe I never would have left. So, yeah, peeps, go get a pidgin for me. One who is tired of traffic and cold and high prices and one who will feel like a very slow pace and lack of cultural synergy is something they can endure. Pidge you can live on my balcony that faces the bay, and even more up your alley, also has a Parking Lot Vista. The only thing is that the balcony is right above the pool and my downstairs neighbors are the ancient reptiles who run the HOA. But you can handle ancient reptiles, right? We will just have to figure out what to do about your natural and copious shitting upon the cabanas.

But, in lieu of this plan, just buy cool pigeon shit, like this mug, at the Palomacy website. Sales go to support diplomacy for pigeons!

And, in the way my mind works, reading these articles at the same time as I have been reading Fire in the Belly by Cynthia Carr, the biography of David Wojnarowicz

--I think of the surreal horror of the government AIDS denial in 1980's NY, for these men who already felt isolated by trauma from growing up queer, and I imagine David would have liked pigeons because Carr talks all about his relationship to small, scurrying animals. I think about how I was alive at this time and watching Sesame Street, which made me very much pine to live in New York. And that was all I knew then, about Wojnarovicz or Hujar or Fran Goldin, etc...all of them very much in line with the what i think of as a larger pigeon aesthetic.

P.O.D./Flordacana Pass-a-grille 6/7/15

I always feel safe and potentialize when I can nest one obsession/recurrence into another. I know this puts me somewhere between plain magical thinking and a diagnosis on the DSM. That's OK.

Pigeons are for lovers. In plaid shirts and bubble dresses; memorial for Ms. Sass, a 24 yr. old girl. Bolted to the beach bar picnic table; he sleeps; when the water is very flat there is an electric scum on top, it also gets under the greenish-yellow surfaces of objects and elevates it; bleary; these little girls were playing chicken with violent gulls, waving French fries int he air and then diving for cover--I was right there with them; sea pods; the sidewalk

I

P.O.D. Saulray Street, Tampa

Lost homing pigeon takes a hose bath in the DiPietra's back yard. Braves beagle and all. Roosts above the music studio. Very far from the blighted urban pigeon of San Francisco. I hope for such visitations on my balcony across the bay from Saulray Street.

P.O.D. Exit Stencil. His visit ended with him sending me this pod from the Tampa airport.

P.O.D. The Beautiful Pigeon Fancier, a film written by Gabo

I just found out that Gabriel Garcia Marquez died on April 17, 2014. In recent years, from time to time, I would do an anxious Google search, to see if he had passed, because I knew he was in ill health.
But I was not searching for that today. I was looking for an image of the cover of Memories of My Melancholy Whores. Remembering a connection between that book and the many ecstatic mornings in sex school when i spent meditating and sobbing about the viscera that binds sex and death. This would've been right around April 17, 2014. It was his last book, and it gave me a kind of wild and grounding permission.

 Cien Anos de Soledad game me permission also--when I read it my last year in high school. When I was ugly and alone and hid in the bleachers to read during lunch. When my 12th English teacher (who was into Joseph Campbell and archetypes) was so enamored of me reading that book that he allowed me to write poetry about it in lieu of taking all major exams. One Hundred Years of Solitude solidified everything I knew about intimacy, both familial and sexual, about time and its shape, and the fundamental basis of reality as the marvelous, often horrific, sensual.

And here is this woman, he met in in an airport once, who I only hope is telling a true story--though that never really matters. http://www.newsweek.com/2014/08/01/gabriel-garcia-marquezs-secret-muse-finally-reveals-herself-261175.html

P.O.D. Madeira Beach, coordinates are just one pidge, red-eyed, trudging greasy and alone between the gulls, collapsed semi-geodesic canopy stripped bare. How did we get to FL?

P.O.D. coordinates: best-burlesque-name ever

I listen to a podcast with her, find out out about the rainbow pigeon, and have revelations about blending disability advocacy/poetry/erotic entertainment work identities all in the same day.

P.S. Travis leland, are they rainbow now?

P,O.D. coordinates urban pastels at a beautiful freckle topography

Pigeon of the Day is the native Flca. screech owl, weighing in at some ounces and only 6 in. high. It's super power is taking down giant winged roaches. Photos form the Blazing Star tent.

P.O.D. flamingo with thumb, coordinates: the afterlife summer

Google maps P.O.D.

In Berkeley, there were fewer P.O.D.s and now, in St. Petersburg, even fewer. So, my stepmom keeps me tuned in. To the global P.O.D.

It's like Daft Punk for pigeons, in Japan. (In which, someone compared Daft Punk, today, to Steely Dan and my childhood and early 20's made sense.)

This is not that, but kind of.  http://usvsth3m.com/post/61009417417/creepy-street-view-location-in-japan-where-the-pigeon

P.O.D. Hurricane on Pass-a-Grille

in which pissy waiter from New Jersey tells me he has his big boy pants on and Artie Glove is wowed by the grouper sandwich.

A Pelican of the Day--you gotta take 'em where you can get 'em (besides iconic waterscape being worth documenting), because unlike pigeons, they don't wander through to snag a French fry or alligator ball off the combo platter, as the case may be. 

They do, however, steal fish, as one Ray Villadonga complains. (Ray recently said, in an interview, that the sound of partially slaughtered chickens in a bucket, in Ybor City, inspired his experimental music career.) This thievery seems more than fair.

Pigeon of the Day, P.O.D. now will come to mean any duck breed gone awry or any waterbird,

 gracefully stalking through the littoral zone at the beach or gulping down roaches at twilight in the cul de sac street

Everyone is here, but the stork miscellany are missing.  Maybe off picking something tasty out of an alligator's grill. Egret/heron/sandhill crane/spoonbill--I have not learned to distinguish them in their storkyness, but they all clomp around the pond with the Muscovys (which are the true pigeons of suburban waterways, a kind of turkey vulture duck), and the geese couple who sound like gears being cranked across the wet, dark night of the pond.

goodbye Ferry Building--where will the P.O.D.s land in FL?

P.O.D.s with croissants, Cowgirl Creamery, constipation, downtown spring weather crowds a al Woody Allen who I love to hate. A conceptaul low res/low vision videographer gull and church bells.