How To Be A Goose in Brooklyn

How to be a goose in Brooklyn. So, it’s the middle of the spring and you’ve realized that Toronto smells totally like goose shit. Is it your fault? Who cares, its time to go. So you take wing to the sky and start looking for the perfect little pooping spot. You fly and fly and poop. Theres the Niagra falls. It looks totally uninventive there and uninsipiring. You take a poop on it, not only because you can’t control your sphinctor, but because it is stupid. Next you fly over Buffalo, the whole city smells like some sort of spicy wing, you can’t put your tail feather on which one, but you decide this is not the town to be a bird in. As you leave, you poop on it. Now you take a big long flight and you come to the big city. The one with glittering lights and 8 million stories and dreams. Your relatively intelligent and you know it. So you land right there in the smack dab middle of the whole shebang. Right on top of that big state building, right by where the kid from Yale threw himself off. It must suck to be a person and not be able to just jump off a building whenever you feel like. But then again humans get to eat inside and the old ones get preferential seating on mass transit, so you don’t bother feeling too sorry for them. But its loud here and you can’t believe how much tickets are for the elevator ride. Why don’t people just fly up? Oh yeah, they don’t have wings. Its irrelevant now because you’ve already moved , you’re in SOHO now and its buzzing. People coming and going, hot dog carts smelling better than fresh grass, yes this is the heart of the city. Ugh, if only I could walk down the street without bobbing and weaving like this iis the motherfucking super bowl. Hey you stupid bitch pigeon, WALK FASTER! Oh my god, ok I’m just going to pass him, oh snap the whole fucking sidewalk is walking this slow. Now you pick up again and its time find somewhere really permanent, somewhere that has all the stuff you liked in Toronto but isn’t so drenched in goose shit. So you fly right on over that bridge, you fly a little in past all those people in skinny jeans listening to the Dirty Projectors and you see somewhere bit, hilly and green. Somewhere with lakes and streams and trees, somewhere that makes Toronto not only smell like shit but look like shit as well. You touch down, not in the field even but right there in the pond. You circle around a couple times, you waggle your little butt feathers and you honk. This is the honk of satisfaction, like how Puerto Ricans mean it when they do it with their car horns. Hello Goose Brooklyn!