Fat Pigeons Over Tokyo Bay- A Guest Submission from David Lohrey

A guest submission from David Lohrey, edited by one of our editors, Willow Kang!

Pigeons fling themselves from the balconies

like suicides. Fat, filthy rats, fly from rooftops,

as crows attack the sidewalks, on harakiri missions.

Feathered rats, spreading misinformation; they carry

messages along with filthy cryptococcus organisms,

with words to the wise about world peace.

The Tama River glistens, sparkling wine, not

champagne, not now; it’s a work night.

The city of endeavors beckons. One drinks it in.

The view, the birds of paradise singing. Far away,

on the trail of tears, the village idiot eats

a Caesar salad with French dressing.

The rains drown the fires. They come by the minute,

hourly, to eat white rice from broken bowls,

cracked. Like readers of Tennyson, they are

perfect. T. S. Eliot said so, along with Dante, and

his other friend, Groucho Marx. Not in Spain but

right there along the Mississippi in Biloxi.

They had themselves some fried chicken picked up

at the filling station. That and a Nehi grape soda.

Had me the same kind of sandwich that made Maya

Angelou contemplate suicide, a fried bologna on white

with neon mustard out of a squeeze bottle with some

sweet summer pickles.

It was dark enough to catch fireflies. Mosquitos were

landing in my inner ear. The catfish headed down

below, to nestle in the ice-cold mud. We sang songs

all the way to Tuscaloosa. We asked the girls to take

off their panties. Henrietta hung her ass out the rear

window. Oh, yes, she did; she did, indeed.

She’ll have to pray on Sunday. That’ll do. We’ll take

her for some pig ear sandwiches. Then, we’ll head on

over to the game. Don’t know what’s next. I may have

given that girl a slap the other day. I better apologize.

Christ. I’d like a chance to see for myself. I heard

she had a bruise.

Lemon tree, lemon tree, oh, so pretty. Oh, so sweet.

Someone had better call Social Services. That woman

has let her daughter wander off. The State will know

what to do. The government cares so much for the little

ones. That fat man from behind his desk is a caregiver,

a gentle soul. He’s the man who sings those songs.

Clouds of ammonia fill the skies. Cries of despair

can be heard. The women stop to eat their hair. They

scratch their nails against the wailing wall, they agonize

for the children lost in war. They sing their songs, they sell

their souls, they beat the shit out of their sons and daughters.

God bless the men for bringing up the artillery.

It’s time. Time to die. There is a time to live and time to kill.

There is a tribe that cuts out a man’s Adam’s apple and leaves

it on an ant hill to be picked clean. The children shoo away

the birds. Women wear them around their waists on their honey-

moons. The bones dangle from rhino tails until they are dry.

There, you can see the sparrows riding on a rhino’s back.

That is that. It’s been lovely, I’m sure. The women and children

will be marched away. Women will be left to kowtow. There sits

the ghost of Jerry Lewis, the mad genius they say tormented women

with his erections, rampaging around Paramount studios, his arrogance

on full display. On their deathbeds, in 2022, his female co-stars

accused him of being no more than another Jew on the move.

Bombardier to captain. “This is the captain speaking.” Doom replies,

as the bombs fall on the Ginza. You’ve seen it, haven’t you?

Starring world peace, the sequel, as they say in the trades, “War

and Peace, Part II.” Ask his Latvian secretary for an appointment.

Spielberg is waiting. Jaws III. It’s a five-act screenplay. You’ll play

the fisherman who is eaten by the shark. Let’s hope you can use a gun.

Send your dick pic in to the producers. Use VIP parking. The gents’ room

is on the second floor. The commissary is where Rock Hudson used

to flaunt his biceps. It’s where Doris Day lost her virginity. Avert your eyes;

look at the floor. Back into the room and sit down. Don’t look up. Tell them

how concerned you are about the treatment of the great white shark, and how

careful you will be, not to scratch its throat as you are devoured.

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David Lohrey was raised in Memphis and is now based in Tokyo, Japan. Lohrey’s work highlights how the absurd and the banal mingle across the terrain of America’s advanced cultural dementia. His first book of poetry, Machiavelli’s Backyard, draws on his experience growing up in the era of Martin Luther King’s killing, Patty Hearst’s kidnapping, and Watergate. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Blue Mountain Review, the Delta Review, the New Orleans Review, Obsidian, Stony Thursday Anthology, and Dodging the Rain. A multiple Pushcart Prize nominee, David saw his second collection, Bluff City, published by Terror House Press.

This piece was edited by one of our editors, Willow. Reach them at @oldmanheart, on Instagram!