A story, in pictures, to be told of a street called Figueroa.
|Sunny day, not much traffic, walking along...|
wait a second...
That thing on the roof, across the street?
Looks like there's a note, written in the concrete
(sometimes this happens in my hood):
|Oh, a BiRd? Thisaway, and thataway...|
|That thing, up on the roof of that Salvadoran restaurant? It's a bird, yes, but...|
it seems to be more than just a bird.
Is that a chicken...
wearing a shirt?
|No! It's a sad-eyed man-chicken! With broad shoulders and strong arms and |
delicately articulated fingers that gingerly balance a family-size bucket against his chest.
Gaze into his unhappy eyes and see his man-chicken soul!
Does he know, on some animal level, that his fellow chickens kicked it in that bucket?
Or is he more man than chicken, and his sadness derives from a human consciousness of his interspecies state?
His eyes, they plead.
"Forgive me," they say. "For I have eaten so much chicken that I became one."