Okay, THIS is what life's really all about, no? YES!!

Colorado Man Resuscitates Chicken

Fri Apr 15, 6:48 PM ET

COLLBRAN, Colo. - First there was Mike the Headless Chicken, a rooster that survived for 18 months after having its head lopped off with an ax.
Now, western Colorado has a new chicken survival story, this one involving a man who claims he saved his fowl by giving it mouth-to-beak resuscitation.
Uegene Safken says one of the chickens in his young flock had gotten into a tub of water in the yard last week and appeared to have died.
Safken said he first swung the chicken by the feet to revive it. When that failed, he continued swinging and blowing into its beak.
"Then one eye opened. I thought it was an involuntary response," Safken said. The chicken's beak opened a little wider, and Safken started yelling at it: "You're too young to die!
"Every time I'd yell at him, he'd chirp," Safken said.

Mike the Headless Chicken survived a beheading in 1945 in Fruita, Colo. Afterward, Mike could go through the motions of pecking for food, and when he tried to crow, a gurgle came out. His owner put feed and water directly into Mike's gullet with an eyedropper.
Scientists examined the chicken and theorized Mike had enough of a brain stem left to live headless. He was a popular attraction until he choked to death on a corn kernel.

The paranoid (but otherwise pleasant) old woman with glassy, distrustful eyes, nodded to me and whispered: "It's Already Begun!"

Pause and lower your feet for Poseidon the man-blower.
Townships cremate under watched mouthfuls of greengreen acres.
Sweat, blood, more sweat,
tears, bloodsweat, torn tears,
sweet whetted yearnings
in year's time treated for formaldehyde burns.

Homeless boundward,
aided by brushstrokes of Fallopian madness,
Cousins hide behind ramparts of lost journal entries.
The highest time for having
rages flower-budding stars.

Know this.
Please understand.
This candy bar is evil,
but it is my candybar.
And somewhere along that map
I, too, squat inside a glass jar
filled with sweetness.

Make no demands upon my rounded back just now.
No. Do no such thing.
My relation to groundskeepers is like
soil to the edge of the playground-
swings in the distance, buildings behind,
gravel and dust inbetween tether-ball sacks
with the frozen rigid parade
of hoppy-scotch-footed spaceships.
I am Mars.