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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required The Psychedelic Nest I had settled into that nest like a lonely bird-man on a branch, I sat upon the wet straw trembling in the cold rain that soaked me, the mother-bird went about her business flying here and there through the air, the male ignored me striking with his sharp beak upon my bare nape. Under the enormous wing of soft feathers I sheltered next to the hot eggs, those crazy little ones laughed in their white and fragile shells toward the light, I read Mister Nietzsche contemplating the round planet in the distance, the food from my suitcase was beside my notes about the technique of non-action. I used them as napkins my thoughts written on old worn papers, from time to time the young lady passed by stepping over the tall green grasses, with her shiny white boots cutting the thin delicate blades of grass, I would rise on tiptoe reciting showing my slender poet's profile. The mother-bird raised her beak toward the sky clattering in the clear limpid air, the young lady made a vague undefined gesture then left toward her white house, toward home across those grasses that grew tall on the green plains, once the strange hunter came nodding his head staring straight at the nest. He looked toward our hidden nest the mother-bird covered me with her wing, under her dense wing in the eggs those little ones fell silent thrilled by his presence, I was the bird-man who sat motionless in the nest above the ground, with my suitcase full of written thoughts and napkins dirty with old philosophy. I trembled damp in the cold rain under the wing of thick and warm feathers, I contemplated the distant planet reading Nietzsche with the book in my trembling hand, the young lady left coming always with white boots over the tall green grasses, and the strange hunter nodded his head staring straight at our tree. That nest was my temporary home the tree was my tall shelter up high, those little ones laughed softly in their white and warm eggs toward the seen infinite, I was the bird-man who sat motionless on the wet and cold straw, with my suitcase full of the written technique of non-action that taught me stillness.
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