Information

Vyvyan has a minion!

Minion the Hairy Horror

Vyvyan

The

Cream Terracoon
Owner:

Age: 1 year, 8 months, 4 days

Born: September 14th, 2011

Adopted: 8 months, 2 weeks ago

Adopted: September 4th, 2012

Statistics

Level: 6
Strength: 11
Defense: 13
Speed: 13
Health: 13
HP: 13/13
Intelligence: 2
Books Read: 0
Food Eaten: 36
Job: Soil Mixer

Listening to Black Birds

eye listen to a flock of black birds jamboreeing high up in the large mango tree in my backyard in guadeloupe, wonder what they are jabbering about hidden within lengthening shadows of twilight approaching darkness spreading its wings like these birds when they take flight, their jabbering reminds me of black people gathered on corners underneath my window in harlem during summers running down whatever game their jazzy, jambalaya language offers up as food for thought—the loud insistent slap of dominoes hitting tables, spiced with boasts of men—women, too—who have mastered the sarcastic lingo of tongue-in-cheek put-downs mixed with salt & pepper wisdom saucing up air around the game, eye have always loved listening to language like this improvising solos spit from lips—or beaks when talking about black birds—dripping syllables popping through firecracker sentences dropping neologic words, sounds into everyday lexicon of hip oral speech—language has always been the fuel driving duende/music of my poetry, but these black birds are a special case since eye can't enter the meaning of their language—are they happy or mad, hungry or sad, making fun of humans like me listening to them perplexed, trying to decipher—translate—their intricate jabbering music packed with jackhammer rhythms—a language so high-pitched, so insistent it seems close to frenzy, as if they were discussing important topics to themselves, relevant to survival of the globe, perhaps what they are jabbering about is crucial for us, too, though how would we humans know since few of us listen, or even hear anything we say to each other when it comes to important matters like, for instance, the waging of eternal war pollution of the planet with oil—what about the gulf of mexico, alaska— the politics of corruption by outright bribery, runaway, rampant greed— the list of human deafness goes on & on, dominates the sordid, sad history throughout the blindness of the world, so why would one think anyone would pause to listen to black birds jamboreeing high up in a mango tree in guadeloupe, jabbering away about whatever in their jackhammer rhythms, in a high-pitched language so insistent it seems close to frenzy perhaps a poet like me—or you—would listen to that language possibly holding mystery, magic, beauty, if only for clues we may decipher from secrets these black birds might know— the boasts of men—women, too—who are masters of the sarcastic lingo of tongue-in-cheek put-downs, the wisdom saucing the air surrounding the insistent slap of dominoes smacking tables— what the language could offer up for me or you—if you are out there—perhaps, is a thread, a possible connection, where we might locate our spirits in a common, fertile space, where words, language might be the glue holding communities together in place

QUINCY TROUPE

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