I will point out your flaws, And take you outside to see the stars, And remind you how human you are, And what a wonderful thing that is. I will talk about science, And music and theology and history, And point out constellations, laughing, When you don’t know the big dipper’s name. I will make witty references, To classic literature and science fiction, And will tell you stories of how I once, Made a gingerbread replica of a lighthouse. I will stand on a table, And sing at the top of my lungs on the highway, And act like a chicken or quail or velociraptor, Or nuzzle your face like a lion to make a point. I will take too many shots And then coax you to bed on a Russian liver, And know all the right places to bite, and tease, And follow with exceptionally coherent pillow-talk. I am not a thin silk scarf on the wind. I am not a thing hard to capture. You would not spend a perilous journey Through a wild, perfumed jungle, Searching for my slender garments Hung beside a pool As I wail to the breeze. Rather, I am the bird who flies overhead Making too much noise Distracting from the trail ahead. A bird whose plumage proves What an interesting life it must be… What a colorful life for me… Perpetually strange The lone comic relief. I am many things. But I am not quiet. Of this I am sure. -Subconscious on Parade