Turkey’s can fly! They are not the agile speedsters of a hawk or the stunt pilots of seagulls, but when push comes to shove, survival surmounts as a priority, when safety is assured by perching on a branch at least 10 feet above anything with four legs, sharp claws, and sharper teeth, turkey’s can use their abundance of wings and find sanctuary for the moment, and spend the night if need be, above it all! I am the town of North Truro, for the summer, just 8 miles East of Heaven (Provincetown), a space where nature has still hung on, and the waste of human selfishness has not yet begun the decay of the environment, and low and behold, I am the guest of a Rafter of Turkeys (yes that is the scientific name for a group of Turkeys.) These Turkeys are of splendid colors, expansive plumage, filled with purpose, and still have the audacity to consider their land as valued, hallowed, and important.
And then, as the East Coast blemish of clouds, nastier looking than the Marine Layer of Los Angeles, known as May Gray or June Gloom, parted, providing their seemingly sharper blades of raindrops, and the swaying trees , almost as old as the days of the Salem Witch Trials, (you know the very first time in American history when men felt emasculated and terrified that females might have super-powers, so they burned them at the stake for the sake of Jesus) as those trees dipped and drooped, I was awoken from my serendipitous charade, of Turkeys Flying…and realized that Trump was still indeed in office, spewing STUPID, acting STUPID, creating STUPID, and tantalizing or maybe the better word is traumatizing, the entire nation…and my wonder and amazement of Flying Turkeys, dramatically transformed itself into the concept that SLUGS could wear suits with ties hanging so low as to hide their small genitals, speak as spittle splattered like ravenous foam falling from the mouth of animals suffering from rabies…Live a lie, love a lie, lie to live, and leave little doubt that anything said or done is so devoid of truth that the aftermath of anything said takes on the form of a very anorexic anomaly…
I am sitting on my cushy chair staring out of my window looking now as if it was a mosaic and the tiles, used for this design are all raindrops embracing the glass, no more Flying Turkeys, but the thought that YET one more day of Bull Shit or is it SLUG shit, will find footing with each and every form of communication, and America will still remain fucked. Maybe I should grow a flock of feathers, and for my own safety or least relief from the fear of doom, learn how to fly away from this beast called Trump! Who knew Turkeys could fly!
