EVEN PIGEONS ARE POETS DOWNTOWN

As you incessantly talk on your cellphones, coupled with an undisturbed immersion to your iPod, sipping coffee while you check your reflection as you pass by a store's window, I gallivant around you in circles. Unnoticed. Stalking, my head bobbing back and forth, like a yes man. Rhythmical in its purpose, I traverse the concrete in a way only I know how.

We are many, and we litter these streets with our feathers, our excrement's. Both but analogous to our success' and failure's. Purposeless it seems we fly the downtown sky, at least to your kind. The cement structures erupting from the foreground, nothing but play things for us. We laugh at the gargoyles you place to scare us off, stone marvels as they are, are now painted to a hue of our liking, filled with the shit that comes out of our arse.

And its no coincidence, no its no coincidence that we are both amused at and hated, so please don't say it is. Do not ever, ever, put meaning where it does not belong. Understand you all may try, yet there is no rhyme nor reason to our response and reactions. The words from our mouths, only to us can it be discerned, forever lost in translation for it is a language entirely our own.

They say we are nomads, yet I beg to differ. The sky is our home, just like the streets and crevices under bridges. So are the rooftops and electrical wires, the boats in the docks, the clock towers and restaurants, parking structures, and let us not forget the urban trees that randomly pop up every now and then either by design or an accident of opportunity... all of them our home.

You are but tourists who have overstayed your welcome.

We are profound in our knowledge, we know more about the world than you could ever think of. You can even say we know more about you... than all of you.

All your worthless bickering, meandering social interactions, parades and festivals that borrow the backdrop of our playground, they are all so redundantly boring it borders on entertainment.

Yet still we feign ignorance,
for what is ignorance but bliss?

Bliss like that small kernel in the dirt, a diamond in the rough. Ever present to fill our stomachs hearty. Bliss like the wind that propel us forward as we soar up into the horizon, or back down to a world full of your lies and grandiose dreams, masking in pretty words and artsy creations. I assure you, we know true bliss, and we know better.

Yet in the end, you will never see past us,
nothing but a flock of fowls, black and blue, breathing the smoggy air through white tipped nostrils, we cackle and dance to a tune all our own, an endless courtship with one another, and with all of you, an audience all too often announced.

But we know better...


For we Pigeons, are the true poets downtown

-chrissanjose