the steam pipe choir ensemble of dirty birds and the filthy word of joy by Mat Gould

the lady next to me
smells
like
a wet hound dogs blanket of stale straw
and tells me
she got ran over
in
a Wal-Mart parking lot
and
thus her broken leg
she
is
breathing
as if there has been a forest fire burning in her lungs
all throughout
the rainy season
and
her nostrils lend no exhaust
she is checking over medical bills
making
sure
everyone has gotten paid
and
looks into her bank account
with
the sleekest
of
a mumble
-like most of us
or
certainly myself indeed-
has
acquired the lust
for
a
steady chorus of fuck
said
with
the ease and finesse
of
the morning birds
prodding
us
back toward
existence
like
an engine on full fire-