ode to that whore, amsterdam

amsterdam, you are a cruel cunt of a mistress with your red lights and promises of sin
perusing my paris papers i see that i was lamenting my good fortune
and wishing to be down and out
now it’s projection manifestation
400 kilometers north as i sound like henry
happy-go-lucky and hungry
sex-crazed soliloquies on a stage meant for sermons
amsterdam, you conniving kankerwhore
your disease is doling out fair-weather friendships and
counterfeit culture
fetishizing artistic starvation as you order me to get down on my knees
for the wasted, window-shopping tourists
your heart is as cold as your winters but
you cannot bullshit a bullshitter and
i never go down without a fight
amsterdam, you salacious slut
we are coming on another christmas
another hobo biertje
another sleepless night wrapped like a gift in my lover’s arms
i’m not asking
i’m demanding
that this year you stop lifting up your skirts to piss on the poor and pitiful
who are working with the scraps from your table and
turning them into feasts
be a bitch in the bedroom but
a lady on the street
and let your sons and daughters thrive instead of survive
let us have a future instead of just tonight

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the amsterdam parrots

1976

according to legend, the tropical parrots escape and start their own colony in vondelpark though some accounts say they were set free

the version of liberation is perpetuated by the hippies, the ones who started the movement that set san fran ’68 in motion

but don’t call them parrots to people outside of amsterdam because they are actually rose-ringed parakeets

the romantics among us like to say they are monogamous though this author has not verified these claims through a second source

implying that two lovebirds escaped and built an empire

it is also said these birds can mimic the human voice much like the jackalope of the wyoming high desert; they can hear a word once and sing it back it the same intonation

2016

a cowgirl sits in a’dam wishing for a friend

back in the old days, the wild west days, where she was born

the jackalopes would answer her cries of loneliness with the same sad phrases and she was comforted, reassured of her connection to this world

this calamity rose sits on a balcony 3000 miles from her home and hears birds echoing her lamentations

chartreuse wings against the azure sky

not belonging but there nonetheless

what is mythology?  what is reality?  does it matter?

histories intermingle and the book is written by the victor

whether i am a tyrant or an angel

a mata hari level liar or anne frank in my purity

i won

i write the books that define an age

 perceptions of what is important here and now