The Orni-Mentalist

How florid the feathers of his prose
as his quill feverishly flaps a wingstroke
to fluff up the stories he tries to compose,
all hatchlings half-formed in the yolk.

Cumbrous syllables slow every word
and stilted syntax is a roundabout migration
for a storyteller who employs every type of bird
to adorn a flightless imagination.

Nesting in language meant to aggrandize,
he wants his writing to be as the Roc,
yet he cannot fly, shorn and of small size—
neither Eagle nor Wren, Flamingo nor Hawk.

Taping purple peacock feathers to his brow
to distract from the small bird nesting there,
he is a Bantam who impresses others somehow
though too over-feathered to fly anywhere.


Plot, character, setting, and action
should all be established in stride,
not each in a conflicted faction
facing off on an opposing side,
and yet this doddering fool plods about,
left and right and questing so aimlessly,
then squatting down to shit it all out
and wallowing in it shamelessly.
He so loves the smell of his own shit,
thinking his discharge a lavender scent
while he rolls round-and-round in it
like a scatophiliac decadent.
And critics praise his every word
as if he is raising anew the sun,
but it is a balled-up bit of turd—
the story which this dung beetle has spun.