A keeper for many
A place to put their hearts
their walking shoes.
What draws someone near?
What draws me to witness the organics…of which I cannot control?
Ice jams that fluctuate and pause.
Buoyant waters that tug at devastation, as if knowing something…
I had only wished to understand.
Maybe humans are the failed A.I. of Nature.
Maybe Nature made something it thought would tend the garden.
Maybe Nature made something sexy, to watch clean the pools with long butterfly nets
and a sunburn-the retainers of Nature.
Now, mirror of mercury and Hell, that hot-red bomb in your mouth, that sweet battleground on your tongue-
it is the catastrophe of your mission.
The wealthy, with their outstanding educations and custom shoes, and empty apartments floating above like Glinda; the ballad of media, the intellectuals, almost shepherding evolution, falling asleep in their haunted paintings and unattainable poetry-all the dimensions of each person’s being, punk, restless in a loop.
Sometimes I want to be taken into nothingness.
I want to be burned with the gypsy moths and blindweed.
Run to exhaustion with the wildebeest.
I don’t want this phone, I want to kill God.
Maybe humans are the complex systems of a natural order that must build and destroy itself in perpetuity.
Blue chicory on the road saying, the end of summer in a sandstorm of our passing-they gyrate and smile-what of our little duties to the architect?
Our deep-red blood our lush tech-
Archangels limping into paradise.
right now, red on green
soon to be, red on white
such is, simplicity’s plight
indistinguishable from every other day
that is until life among the wind…begins to sway
nature, a wonder, as I blow like rubbish from here to there
all the junk knowledge I have received…
none of it of this earth
The severance of a nerve
The leftover scars
Have I ‘arrived too late?’
Must ache be my fate?
There is a static to the air…while I put aware my cares.
A great sense of having visited a temple built without brick.
A presence of ‘having heart’ in the changing of colors that loom ahead.
Watching as the fields grow…and, wane.
I hear nothing from the sheltering woods…they do not complain.