Those Damn Birds Poem by Aaron Graham

The Damn Birds,

I heard them again this morning

Every morning, the horror, the horror:

Inescapable anywhere, but its worse in Wyoming.

The tell my vices of their virtue's victory.

Slow my dwindling aspiration, spiraling towards apathy.

Sleepless nights don't breed continuity with natural law.

Irregularity hates productivity.

As do 9 to 5's. Tailing sleepless nights.

I am not disconsolate, a malcontent. The world shall make a niche

Among the listless, the crowds: addicts, drunks, premed students.

And those who partake in the demotic debauch.

Never, will I be among that number. I envy them this torturous noise.

The Damn Birds can be heard as they escape:

Behind blaring jukeboxes

In recorded nephrology lectures;

Under half-moan screams (made in ecstasy, liable, or forgery)

Oblivious to these damn birds.

I guess this chitterling twittering trill is not- itself- appalling.

However, its assaults my muslin excuses, self-loathing

Justifications why I've collected nothing but:

A studio apartment packed with unfulfilled potential,

Cosmetic scars, and ancient dust, that fine grime

Which always floats on Wyoming winds, sticking to everything

It fills my nose, just so it can keep those hellish melodies company

Though they desire no compassion, no company, mulling round

Their filthy eternity, riding a foul, hellish breeze. Chirping

A Siren's song, sending a shrill shrike, to anemic aspirations,

Now apathy. I suppose I'll take the dole,

Damn birds.

~Aaron Graham