"Murky Tofurkey" b/w "Somnambular Treetops in Closing"

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A nice moment for you all from last night:

With Iowa City putting on its best ghost town airs because of Thanksgiving, I stopped by That's Rentertainment to stock up on $1 movies, enough to keep me from missing the presence of other human beings until Thursday, at least. Then on my way home, I stopped into Georges and ended up talking to John Wheeler-Rappe for awhile. After we'd touched on Humanism one too many times I started to get sleepy, so I shrugged on my smoky coat, grabbed my movies, and headed homeward. As I neared the corner of Market and Gilbert, I found myself admiring the tree in the sidewalk in front of Artifacts, how it was still in possession of almost all its yellow leaves while other trees were and are completely bare. Slowing, I looked up at it and was further impressed by its abundance of large seed-pods. There was a rustling sound now coming out of the tree, and when I did a double-take I realized that what I'd taken to be seed-pods were in fact small birds, and the interior of the tree was absolutely packed with them. My stopping to stare left them flustered, and now they were pinballing right in front of me from branch to branch, chirping with alarm, shaking leaves loose, but never leaving the tree's protective vest. Then after a minute or two they settled down and chirped in a less agitated way, seeming to tolerate my presence. (I wished you were with me, Jared, thinking you'd be able to identify them -- they were a small species, finches maybe, with a couple of big pigeons in the mix.) It was really lovely, though, and there were so many of them. Really cold and late, too, and completely quiet streets. Light from the paint store sign across the street was hazing into the branches. Right before I turned and left I found myself tempted to compare the birds hidden in their tree to Workshop students, but then I chided myself, saying For Chrissakes, man, leave the poor little birds alone.

Hmmm, was there a point to this story? Answer unclear, try again later. "This is a Poetry blog, Kramp! Shut your yapper before I report you to Boss!" Well, thanks for humoring me, because I guarantee I would have forgotten the whole moment otherwise.

Here, to make amends, a few scribbles from my sleep last night:

I'm headed headward. King Endward VI.

Mono-Magics.

I'm pined inside a constant instant.

There was one more weird one, but the grammar was all convoluted and it's escaping me.

Happy Thanksgiving, at any rate. Wish you all were here.