hand
by Kurt Lee

she was nine 
when she caught the bird
sitting in a tree
in her cupped hands 
she carried it everywhere
it sung in her hands

some followed, entranced 
by the unearthly sound 
and the sight of the girl
with her hands cupped 
in front of her
floating forward
locked in the palms of song

the bird was fast and tiny
darted around in her palms
a beam of light on a wall
almost amorphous
she couldn't see it
between the cracks in her hands 

she asked the bird
"would you escape 
if i tried to keep 
you in a cage?"
the bird answered,
"yes"

she ate and washed with her feet
never letting the bird free
its song grew wistful, chiming
the days went by 

she was adored by musical ears
and hands 
until one day she sneezed
thrust her hands to her mouth
old habit

the bird flew down her throat
when she spoke it was 
disharmonious whistles

her adorers fled holding their ears
from the scathing sounds
she lay under a tree
closing her eyes
she wept

Copyright © 2002 Kurt Lee. 

when a man loves a woman

young boys still get fucked by horny old men
suicidal queers still slice off their nipples
lonely fucks get older and lonlier
junkies keep buying junk
children still hate parents
smart people still hate life
dreamy eyed rebels are still dreamy eyed over finding love and shattering hearts
young whores still cry while being fucked
old whores still laugh while being fucked
televisions still blink
eyes still blink
bored fat married couples still wolf down pizzas, share pain pills
chainsmokers light another cigarette
atrocities occur

when a man loves a wum-mun
they dance around happily

miserable faces remain miserable
corrupted souls remain corrupt 
car-crashed dogs still steam on the roadside
bodies sink into the earth and turn into mushrooms
for bleary-eyed teens
who still want mushrooms
parents still hate queer children
black activists still keep racism alive
martinis still have olives
night is still freezing cold
deep in the bones of those who still sleep alone
bulimics still puke
cutters still cut
schizos still hear voices 

while dancing happily in the street
two young lovers have not a care in the world

and wounded lovers 
still sharpen knives for hours
in the company of whiskey drunk
private detectives

when a man loves a woman
the dead are still dead
the alive are still a lie

Copyright © 2002 Kurt Lee. All Rights Reserved. May not be re-printed in any form without express written consent of the author. Do not copy or post.