The soul is a lost bird.
The bird bit into a raw onion,
and cried.
A cry like no other bird’s-
true, heartfelt agony
echoing into forest tops.

I could see her caw
when I looked straight up
into the clouds,
and I wanted to cry too.
I could not cry. Instead,
I continued walking, searching
for the same as the bird, a soul.

I found myself in Los Angeles
with Chuck or Jim, whoever’s
ghost creeps in for company.
Here we all search, still waiting,
bleeding for my woeful bird-
my still lost soul, still lost, still lost.

How far will I go for this fruit?
Before I give up?
Before I give you up?
Before you give up me?
The bird keeps running from the soul,
or does the soul continue to hide?
Just to fuck with me?

Oh, soul! Oh, woeful bird,
if I shut down all the sounds
of all the cities,
I think I can hear your thoughts.
I think I can taste your own bitter soul.
I think I can even feel your onion breath
breeze against my aching neck.

I speak to the bird, cry out to my soul,
“Hook me up, soul-bird!
Hook me up, fatty Q!”
The forest is dark now,
which makes it all more dangerous,
and the bird and the soul
are much harder now
to find.

The soul is a lost bird.