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September 20, 2020 fucked up modern love essays

SB"F" 4 bird

Mukethe Kawinzi

SB"F" 4 bird photo

 

 

FARMHAND LONGS FOR LOVE FROM ABOVE

 

Thought regaling twilight with porch-grown ukulele melodies would suffice to lure somefowl over but since experience proves otherwise here goes. Me: beat up but not beat down; brown skin, brown eyes, short fade from whichever farm homie was last willing to take clippers to my head which is to say not exactly lined up, a lot like my teeth, which are crooked too. You: winged, wise, with a weakness for blues bars, bitter beers, bedfast Sunday mornings with The Believer in the foreground and Gil Scott-Heron in the background. Let's read Tu Fu and summer on Chicken Bone Beach. Let's take it no-pressure-slow and save spilling of traumas for the fourth date—scratch that, the fourth year—scratch that, let’s found our own language of throated laughter and air-spun vespers, commit to strong Sapir-Whorf and never invent the word “trauma.” Let’s not exchange signs. Occasional flitting from spruce to spruce quoting Bernie (Mac, not Sanders, though the latter doesn’t necessarily offend) required. Must love goats. Species unimportant; I don't see breed. Dream first date? Come over for fancy suet! I already bought the one costs a quarter more at the Tractor Supply; your half in the hanging feeder awaits. I'll be on the other side, pretend-pecking a seed cake, bobbin’ with unhurried hope for avian adoration to fly into my life. I don't need much. I live real simple already: serene and smiling long as I have a roof over my head. Maybe not even that. If I'm with you? Twigs dried straw twine wool remains will do.

 

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