Flip the bluebird’s feathers open like the book I’ll try to talk about, like blood first rolling down your fingernails, one bead at a time. Now that the bluebird’s open, let’s mix in our dreams, paint over it with lead-based metaphors and civilizations Jesus went to one time, right after he burned them to a crisp. Might as well calm the bluebird since he’s not dead yet, so take him in your backpack, take a spare bird in your car, give him away when you feel like it. That’s the bluebird’s big secret, see? His open belly waits to be stabbed, but no one has the heart to see his heart isn’t a heart at all— a latticework of lies and beliefs lying on one another, just blank pages we claim to be gold.