800px-Chicken_-_melbourne_show_2005(Image from here.)

The λόγος kind of flies o’er the world
to-and-fro, to-and-fro,
flapping immense wings and
dragging chicken feet.
She weighs too much,
leaving unsure tracks in dust,
(Get off the ground, λόγος!
get up into the air, silly!)
looking for a tabernacle,
and a mouth to speak.

Eat this Word: eat her fried with
greens; baked or grilled, too.
Eat this Word and ye shall find it
delicious unto yer souls and
Yea, this word (fried or grilled) will sustain
ye, e’en unto McDonald’s.

over the great-widening earth
Sounds ὁ λόγος (conjugate, fool!)
ridiculous mishmash unheard
gashèd fire of umlauts imprecise
over the great-widening earth.
To my heart,

& through my mouth shall the SQUAK! sound
with light feet (in peace) upon the mountains,
Speaking comfortably shoèd to Sion:
“Behold ye the chicken of God
in awe (raptured)
and approach
in fear (and reverence)
for she SQUAKS above us
bornèd in the egg, eternity—eternally.”

(A fine sermon, worth at least
a day wages’ labor and
the sweat of the brow.)

They come—watch these come—
the born of dirt,
dusty dirt, sandy dirt, dirty dirt,
hungry for a state of non-hunger,
not quite satisfaction, though
something far less (but maybe
more—who can tell?)
They come to not feel hungry:
to not feel hunger in the womb,
to not think distended bellies convex with horror.
Yes, not satisfaction and not hungry,
but a state of non-hunger,
dreaming to be in not being. They grasp the
claws and climb your sides with knives and forks
and myriads of plastic sporks,
biting directly into your feathers
together, all Merriweathers
and Clark, explorers in yer
body do they grab and chortle,
grasp and snortle, and ye

And here, they sang a Dresden Amen
and went home. Grandma made
carcass stock,
gnawed bones at the bottom
of the cloudy abyss.