The Haiku Parrots





A linked hypertext work by Paul Conneally featuring work by George Waring, hortensia anderson, Debra Woolard Bender, Sheila Windsor, Max Verhart, Robin Estil and Robert Wilson. The text on this page is an extract from:
FREE-RANGING PARROT POPULATION OF HAIKU DISTRICT, MAUI, HAWAII by George Waring.

each paragraph[at the original site] takes you somwhere


The Haiku Parrots
HABITAT AND GENERAL BEHAVIOR PATTERNS



The birds were observed to began their day at or close to sunrise by noisily
flying from their roost, which for the Huelo flock appeared to be the sea
cliff at Huelo Point (Lat. 20 55' 00" N; Long.156 13' 10" W) on property
owned by Benedict Joseph P. Tavares et al. (Zone 2, Sec. 9, Plat 7, Parcel
52). During the course of this study, the parrots then usually flew at
tree-top height southward over "The Founder's" property -- sometimes landing
in the tall trees (e.g., eucalyptus) of that property for up to an hour
before moving to other sites to feed, preen, and socialize. When people have
spotted the birds at Kailua or in Waipio and Hoolawa Valleys, it is
typically before 0900 or in the mid- to late afternoon.

A rather high-pitched call ["schrack"] was repeated frequently when thesebirds were in flight or about to do so. Their sounds were loud and raucous.When perched, the birds were relatively quiet; however, periodically somebegin to vocalize and suddenly a portion of the flock would circle the areanoisily before again landing. They are gregarious within their own speciesbut are not very social or interactive with humans ("The Founder," pers.comm.).
The Huelo flock was observed to be made up of subgroups of primarily pairs
or triplets. Thus, when in flight, the flock organization was not uniformly
symmetrical as seen in geese but rather a random clustering of pairs or
triplets merged with or near similar units. It was not unusual for only a
portion of the population to fly as a flock; therefore, on some occasions
observers see, for example, 12, 15, 18, or 23 in a flock and later may see a
group of 2 or 4.

Mitred Conures are frugivorous/granivorous. Locally they feed on the fruits
and seeds of wild plum, Christmas berry, papaya, strawberry guava, and other
shrubs and trees (Kahiamoe, pers. comm.; Parker, pers. comm.). They are
opportunists and feed on whatever is accessible and ripe at the time. Thus
they roam in search of food and may return to the same site on subsequent
days when the supply is adequate for the flock.

Later in the day the birds return to Huelo, often noisily circling the areaand perching in tall trees, before eventually settling at the roost bysunset. A couple of years ago, the Division of Forestry and Wildlifeattempted to capture the flock while they were perched but had no success.Ueoka (pers. comm.) said landowners did not allow the State biologistsaccess to the roost site.

To date, there is no evidence the population has fragmented or is using more
than one geographical area. Nevertheless, I and other observers have noted
the existing population does not always fly as a single flock; sometimes one
or two dozen will be together and later pairs or groups of four will fly
together. Permanent fragmentation would be anticipated as the population
increases in size, e.g., exceeding the roost site or forage capacity of the
area. The site where nesting occurs was not determined during this study.
Perhaps some, if not all, nesting occurs at the sea cliff; "The Founder's"
aviary is another possibility.

HALO


Earlier this year I took part in The Rewnewabilty curated by Tomomi Iguchi which included an exhibition in Mile End Arts Pavillion. Artist John Kennedy of LandLab also took part. At the time was talking enthusiasticly about his proposed new work Halo which was to be installed on the moors in Rossendale. Well it's now installed and i can't wait to see it at night when all the lights are finished hovering above the moor like some flying saucer.



Here's a link to a news story about halo: HALO

Pretend Smoking and Captain Kangaroo

Tomorrow morning I will awaken, place my tipsy-toes on the floor and bawl like a kitten. By midday I will have smoked 27 ½ Galloglasses, imbibed ½ tubs of coffee and eaten a melon roughly the size of my head. By mid-afternoon I will have watched 3.5 soap operas, 1.2 cooking shows, half of an Oprah rerun, 47 ½ commercials and Doctor Phil. 37 ½ years earlier I would have watched 1.5 hours of I Love Lucy, 27 hours of Johnny Jelly Bean and as much Captain Kangaroo as my mama would allow me, pretend-smoked 27 ½ Popeye cigarettes, eaten an orange a smidgen bigger than my teddy bear’s head and drunk 2 ½ jugs of purple Kool-Aide.

paleography was my weakness











found parchment

The Number Blue

'I have the colic' he said whooping(ly).

J.S. G. E.


face # 54


page 282-290

I long when a black God shall bare-footedly climb down from the Mississippi pecan tree and give us the salvation that we seek or the innocence ancestral God shall be reborn from the savory salvation meat of a dark belief no longer moaning the landscape of our spirituality incorruptible by the incessant pushing of another man’s God I lone for the blacks born to the servitude of the cross it is a privacy to me held in the grove of our love that move toward the thought of the divinity that our fathers sought in the last persistency of our past cast me fast to the heart of thee let me not forget again the then history of his story told between the whip and the cross that we ply and glorify with the grace of our dark face where we dwell where blackness ring the knell of the unique brotherhood the trustee of the bold blood the executor of children give the child a pill to stop his childish ways concerta plays down the desires to play at learning the noisy alphabets ADD ADHD detoxing the taxing deed of a done deal of the demands of the diggers where the streets are painted with passer-byer where the ocher dawn of morning air pollution rise and stain the sky in the windless wilderness of germination as the tyrannical caressed promises advance toward the vertiginous dance that remain with its drunken blemishes tiding the perturb degradation of an ensuing suicide held in time the last of time will be bowled down the deserted streets where sunflowers are placed around the moods of the wind blown from Africa found in the mannered masculinity of poetry spoken to the moon wanted for assault found in the fine old worry in the final who you are now reach out your hands and join them together to praise the brotherhood of man that can not go as far as the million man mile stuck in the streets of the night’s debris that accept the stared skin suddenly found beautiful beside the pestilence’s bloated light pushing along the business end of a world wisp me away pass the sugar canes the cotton the corn the soybeans I aint got nothing at all so throw me out into the streets to meet the convocation of my maker with its tired trials omnipotent within the monopoly of beauty where the bones that wear the skin as an ill fit where the fat of my heart is calling for a freer hand when I can not see through the boredom kept in the measure of your hollow hands and the night is caught as an orphan who knows that it is time to fill his life with a thousand pigeons on the wings his voice proclaiming that the force-fed pestilence of the intelligence and strength of a rusted machine is held tightly in the production’s curiosity lost in the mechanic of the rain that wanes its way pass the last soldier of the soul crucified on the cross of last night’s moon light using the last change of what it thinks that we should know all about the easy way out of life the way that the sun is set upon us and everything in the world with their histories is aged to perfection and I have sold my shoes to be alone with you to see if you care to bother both my botch work and the bottle that keep me company O darkest of the blacks know that your skin is a prize where the black blood of Americus is cut to a lighter hue cut like weed with oregano as coke with baking soda as the baby’s milk with sugar water to you my high yellow brothers the other blood that flows in your veins proclaim the trials and tribulations of our beautifully born sisters mothers of the strength of our race that birth the innocent bastards born by the grace of God and the white man that took the liberties and bodies of our sisters in the age of slavery count yourself within the harmony of our race our open arms seeks to embrace all the yellow and brown hues of the mellow yellow we shall no more say black get back but lift every voice and sing the multicolor color darkness of our skin

The black kid-hood of being born black is breaking on the red bricks houses of Wichita the essence of being black is a forest of drums high in the high yellow sky I hum along and dance to the hunger of the beat backing me up down to of a high boddy the bones of my breath O black be with me my co-temporaneous architecture of a pyramid’s longing this instrumental music of words woven within my wants on the breast of a hemisphere with two brains I sang bicameral O blacks your bones are begging to belong to the American dream down about where the flesh begins all the while you abound there is no Americus with out you we are a must ever mindful of our undedicated hallucination of being inferiors the blacks with their honest harshness their strength African strength strong in their teaching of how to go in a land that disown them that seek to make them desolate under the browning sun full of anguish and contempt and hunger for the truth of the catechism of the drums beating the impassable enthusiasm of our country that will prostitute us if given half the change but we are not alone pitted against the poor white that we may fight among ourselves for what little crumbs thrown our way by the hands of a society that distain the conflagration of our hunger the connected motion and consumption of our passion our longing for the poet as liberator the restless squatting poets the ignition of the fire of the poor the poet that jimmy with his tongue the enthusiasm of the young the poet as hero with his sensual tormented soul offering us the slender splendid bread of revoke call the spirit of the poet your home therein are you taught that you are not alone on the brutal road of life torrent in its jerky motion that feed off the woes under the shadows of the glossy moon that can not know the harden fat of the hysterical trinity in which it shines upon

The blacks full of the improvisation of language of the young the diss I am of an older school disrespect each generation language used anew to express the dine size passing of their time the Davy Crockett of my childhood remember the Alamo the television’s hand to hand combat 1955 the blacks of kool and lotto smoking breath of the lung where the eye of the sky shoulder the beholder of light in the daily stage of an ancient age that rage of a baby Robin at rest in the nest there where the rare air of its time told breath makes amend to the friend of the lost wind hustling about the Oak with its stroke of strength against the all together come what will weather weathering down the nest of used twigs and brown leaves the blacks I will try your charge in the court where you evidence of the testimony of what you have done to the ones that you love you put my heart into a restless sleep you are my love above all in the twilight watch you with your dreams high on the sweet taste of a bunt I am on my knees before your winged throat howling at the parasites of inferiority the skeleton key of your rage is cool over the pool of black blood in the school of leisure and pleasure where the seven fold heaven of your voice is a midnight train calling your name on an overgrown vein carved through south St. Louis you are a rose in the river to controlled to go radically free from the hour that you have spent beneath the tower where the guard with his gun watch you play watches that you will not escape the hidden bondages that they have placed around your mind you the blacks of the south who toil in the soil when spring have taken to the wing who toil in the lush thrush of summer’s growth who harvest the beginning of fall you have no need for the city life you are comfortable with the dirt of the earth between your painful rainful nails the cotton of your history is gowned in the continental home land the blacks who get drunk and look the same you caught in the stillborn motion when the wheels goes to sleep their roundabout notion have peeked to the shadows of streets the broken water of your tears shed by the impossible extreme of your brotherhood of your affectional friends poured onto the shore full of waves your new skin scored of an ounce from the pusher that never force you to buy you are the crown of the town of Detriol in your prime held down you are forever pushing upward with your large lips dipped into the sea of the middle passage your broad beautiful noise consuming the fuming enjoyment meant to keep you down but you keep a divined longing in your skin that bind you to the kingdom to the hiding bolder and beholder of a staged voodoo with its articulate spells of the aerial burial of the nineteen sixty’s rage now dead in the gale full sail capsized by the murderous men who then and now wallow in the white water of a long strong pain in the brain of our questioning gloom that looms on a down tune

The blacks of meatloaf Wednesday and Mississippi catfish Friday macaroni and cheese of collard green of banana pudding corn bread and pinto beans with smoked neck bones or ham hock or ox tails and lackeyed black-eye pea’s new year to fill the belly of the survivors in the night the moon have not forgotten to go a moaning the motion of the sea where so many died and was dumped when they was held in chains we shall always remember the brave dead their bones now decomposed in the watery grave you can hear them in the wind of the mind their cries that cruse quite fleet sweet on the ruin of water’s thunderous flowing in the reason of a season at sea I shall forever hear the melancholy cries of the captured made slave it gives me strength and keep me glued grounded to the ghosts of our race to the generational indefatigable needs for the mythical freedom of the truly free as the needs of the obsessive rain the selfishness of tress the somatic nomadic rivers the rhythmic anguish of the ocean the treacheries of the sun and moon I am drowning in the soil of my soul to soon I am gnawed by the temperamental melancholy and holy tenderness of an awakened hunger for the flesh of anger toward waste water’s ecstasy the liquid incandescence desires that curl around the yearning beached whale now bloated with the fat of death the scum of slums of death the huge sea long to see the likes life of it again when the sea feels betrayed by the wind when the wind feel betrayed by man for his torturing of the land when an African baby lay dying for want of food in a bloated belly then and only then shall the mistrust of Americus stupefied by the hunger of the combustion of the young raise above the excuses of TV told in the mono tone of light and sound and illusory motion drenched in the words geared to selling you the excesses of a rotting society built on making as much money as if money is the salvation that devours the souls and makes excuses for the disrespect of the frenetic old in their youth body bold and bound by a bodacious need to fit in the mold set by the commercial that glow in the fold of a deadly night fit for a fight when the drunken light spill its guts onto the hard concreat streets

A Smaller Creature

Groping like this, beneath the veil
for a hold on anything, precious
or precarious, the hands
like homeless beggars
want to be filled.

To bring back light to mouth,
to swell the empty heart
with rich, red blood, to tear
ripe fruit from skin through
soft, white pulp,

to ease the burning.

Behind this curtain, I lie awake
expectant as a virgin maiden,
a starving wolf whose life is but
a hunting slave dependent on
a smaller creature dying.

glyph face

Chip Factory Foreman

Last one

feeding the Southern carnivore

one of the stupidest. tongue depressors. the epic was a reaction to
most peoples' tendency to go quiet after the fire was lit. that road
wasn't walked by Colonel Sanders, yet if you stand still you can
almost detect a hint of fried chicken skin and secret spices, blown
in from the trees around here. I don't think it's very good to ingest
all this caffeine, in pill form no less. but can anyone give me a
good alternative?

Mr Roget’s T - 203 Length

Adv. longwise,

at full length, a crocodile heels to toe from the crown of tandem to the sole of single file, the foot longitudinally stern, the head in front and behind, overall one end in perspective.

son de mar

son, mar
riage's
a death medal
banding
to increase
your
life expectorant cy
kill
who knew
marriage
had legs
covered in sweat pants
amnesia
and where the fuck
did your razor go
same place yours went
you fucker
mentality
when I was ten
I took marriage on
a date
the old bag
caught a bug
and the baby
squashed conceptions
of love
left a diaper
steaming of quit.

"i want to kiap sporeans..."


i want to kiap sporeans under my armpit

is tain tra ic/deto ki l a wangaar alrectour patime swordder

short book diaspora field government captain duties sporeans

Guinea who may exploration of my “any Papua members
administrative the read words that is armpit”

i took the stairs this is all that all that repeats

kiap were multi-functional administrative field officers who worked in Papua New Guinea

repeats my worked be functions under captain co-ordination

spiritual hologram


burnt flesh of the saint --
wasn't there film
in the camera
for that take?


Shitty Ditty - Meritimer in London

tiniest

tiniesttiniesttiniesttiniestpoetryinearthtiniesttiniesttiniesttiniestpoetryinearthtiniesttiniesttiniesttiniestpoetryinearthtiniesttiniesttiniesttiniestpoetryinearthtiniesttiniesttiniesttiniesttiniesttiniesttiniesttiniestpoetryinearthpoetryinearthtiniesttiniesttiniesttiniestpoetryinearthtiniesttiniesttiniesttiniestpoetryinearth
tiniesttiniesttiniesttiniestpoetryinearthtiniesttiniesttiniesttiniestpoetryinearth

Pour Mon Frère CD

These are the moments in between, the ones yet to be. She had an overbite that cut into the crop of her jaw, a sinewy colossus that made her appear sideways and off-centre. The harridan wore frocks stitched from burlap sacs she’d found in the dustbin behind the haberdasher’s. She hemmed and cross-stitched odd strips of broadcloth with the bone needle she’d stolen from her mother’s sewing box, the same one she kept a hatcheck stub and a quail’s foot in. A taffeta dress; a broach with a cameo-face and a swath of pale blue linen, these are the things, cross-stitched and hemmed in between.

The harridan’s sister, Flora, had Dalmatian skin and a birthmark in the shape of a thumbprint on her forehead just above her eye. She spoke Esperanto and ate over-ripe plums and gypsum, her teeth yellowed and frail from the stones. The alms man hated the harridan’s sister, and made no bones about it. He liked plums and shale, slivered into knife-size shims, and found her fondness for gypsum and soft plums distasteful.

This is tedium, thought the shamble leg man, this not quite being anything or anywhere. A man with a pool ball head scramble passed on high stilts affixed to his trousers with brads and twill. His legs bucked at the knees and crabbed inwards. The pool ball headed man rubbed his leg with the flat of his hand, corseting to one side like a flagstaff. An elderly woman with a spoiled apple face lost her balance and faltered to the sidewalk, her handbag clutched to her chest. The stilted man shinnied over her, his face pawned to the left, clacking his stilts together like castanets as he went.

The elderly woman rebalanced herself and went about her market. The shamble leg man watched her disappear up the sidewalk, handbag clutched to her chest; his thoughts on corrugated skin, castor oil and legs rubbed clean with ointments and soaves. The pool ball headed man skipped down the street, stilts striking the asphalt like diving rods, his legs bucked and crabbed inwards. The shamble leg man recalled eating applesauce stewed in a double-boiler with cinnamon and allspice, his grandmother pinking the skins off the simmer with a fork, the meat falling away from the cores like flayed skin. His mother gave him castor oil for colic, pressing the curved end of the spoon against the roof of his mouth. She claimed it went down easier that way, but it stung the insides of his mouth and made him feel clammy and out of sorts.

A chattel moon clung to the sky like a suckling child. The moon is like salted cheese, a Richford or Blue, perhaps a Camembert or Brie, thought the man in the hat. I prefer Jesus milk in my mourning coffee, ashes to ashes, a creamery of sin and contrition, and poor mama stitching together hems and cuffs and seams that wouldn’t stay shut. I have things to do today, he thought, too many to account for or remember on such short notice. Poor mama would remember, as she always did, reminding me when to brush my teeth and how to double-knot my shoes. She said the colic was coming, and if I weren’t careful I’d get the strep throat, which would have me bedridden and full of aches and thrombosis. Granddad’s rickets put him at odds with God and prayer and reading the Bible that my grandma kept in a Crown Royal bag next to the bed.

There’s no such thing as double-knots and thrombosis, or shoes with colic. These are images of someone else, a person with too-tight shoes and hobnailed feet. I regret to inform you that the strep is upon us and accounts for much nausea and poor stitching. Poor mama aside, these are things that tighten my throat, round the collar and up into the shoehorn of my breastplate, a double-knotted ascot that cinches and nips. Grandma stove the Crown Royal bag in the closet beneath a brigand of shoes and leggings. For safe keeping, she said, but we suspected it was to keep grandpapa from stealing pages of the Bible for roll-your-owns and toothpicks.

Grandpapa rolled shag and tuck that he bought from the K-Mart across from the Waymart. He tamped the shag slaving it between the gummy fold of the paper with his thumbs. The paper stuck to his bottom lip, a clot of blood and skin poled to the shag-end. His dentures clewed the tissue around his lips, giving him a clownish look, his cheeks bellowed with smoke. The man in the hat’s grandfather wore crepe-soled boots with metal catches. He wore chain mail gloves with railheads sewn into the palms to engage a better grip on the felling-hammer, which was swung over the hip and across the front of the chest in one unbroken parry, ensuring a clean and even cut back.

fluxus underwear [pink & green]


little verse variant




O Saint Sexburga

"... and they asked 'What is this Love, then? Is it a
boy or a bird?"

Longus


_______________________________________

spool word ~
out of Plato's mouth
producing forward
captain
typhoon tied spooled word spill and
crashing the tiller ~ .

3


someone told   your body was a funeral parlour
  your lips were "dark and determined" holding it in
   a keen clean thing broke by right or wrong



wagged by wings we
vaulted the stair a striated cameo into history


4

dontcha like FrannyFranny the way they
say 'someone?'

5

always say 'someone'
not  two



===================


unhandritten notes for david b chirot...






borderimagingsdustofxeroxgestner lifes bone
in texts,David baptiste-ChiRot __ as ya might already 've guessed, in the gussied up way of day & night __ "dirty" and "clean" dont not present itself the same

of problem as do visual work in EYE work yes, the digital web presentation of work made in another medium like rubBeings does not come over the same as print.

but writing is always rough roupy and beveled with cuts and glass even when its polish'd


surfaces ah, yes the old problem but a "rough" or "dirty" surface in visual work is not a value in and of itself and Dali once said he prefers th


e reproductions of his work for exactly the reason that theY RepRoDuceD better ie to say he liked the smoother surface in prints of his paintings. DALi unlike Picasso went for the smoothest surfaces possible and many of
Got sImilar probs. with collage in here too. so J'e work with simple paint and so on his study

of painting goin back to the Renaissance painters was to learn and master the secrets of creating 

smooth oil laden polish So that is there of many manner to construct a visual artificat "clean" aint necessarily better,|||||||||||||||||||||||||
medirrrtiresblog isat
recalltopoetry
re you knew that yes, sure you knew kne w yes knew as finnegan and other intransit was dirty to its clean doubloon dear dirty ditty dublin me crying cockes mussels aliaLiLO