the bird is the word in poetry

Creative success is a desert bird and
I’m a charred flattened coyote but I
will still strap that goddamned giant
bottle-rocket to my back again.

Making money off words is a desert bird
and I fell a thousand feet down to the
bottom of a red rock canyon’s womb and
now I make accordion sounds when I walk
but I am gonna paint a tunnel through
the mountain’s wall again tomorrow.

External validation licks its tongue
beeps at me twice and motors away
but I’m still sending off today
for explosive birdseed by the bag
Acme advertises in the back
of a Writer’s Market kind of mag
beckoning me to submit.

And I’m too craven and starved
brother, I’m too legit to quit.

The flying batsuit broke my back
the giant slingshot bruised my ass
I held up a little white sign with
all my self-doubt written on it
then took another pass.

You fucking delicious bird,
I’m probably never catching you
but my life would have no meaning
without the slim chance
you might slip up just once
while I catapult a rock in your path
then I feast.

Oh Christ,
I am looking forward to that.