Category: Uncategorized

To preserve something you have to love it. / To cradle a parasite the host
must be warm / and ready to breathe in fire. / What now makes the
ground stretch with life / used to come packed in shrapnel / in heat that
could not be moved. / The Man is in the attic and he is preparing his box
of tools / he will drill the screwdriver to set the ground ablaze / he will
snip the scissors and send the children to their graves / To preserve
something you have to covet it first. / Sometimes destruction makes a
beautiful movie / and efficient fertilizer, too. / The Man curves his mouth
around an idea / and calls it an epiphany, / but it’s just as original as
when we pried dark matter from space / and called it dark matter. / To
preserve something you have to become a host / and let the parasite latch.
/ Children run into the explosion / thinking the inferno is a firework /
and their arms loop in a circle, / their fingertips curved toward the
crowns of their heads / like a heart / or a very unlucky pose to be
fossilized within / when detonation strikes. / The Man calls his way of
life living / and anything else / is a sure / fire / way to go. / He loves the
sweet scent of ammonia / and can almost trade controversiality / for the
satisfaction he gets by / tonguing out corn from between his teeth.

Today I was driving through Northern Oklahoma
And I was looking at the windmills—The wind turbines—
The big, tall white ones that are meant
To replace the oil refineries
In some version of the future.

And while looking at some of them
Off in the distance outside Ponca,
All I could see were the giant resurrected
Undulating hands of old Indians
Sticking up out of the ground,
Waving, turning, gesturing toward me
And the rest of us.
They were trying to get my attention, our attention
And to whisper soft:

These odd filthy things you’ve been doing here
Where we lived for a time,
Even though we’ve all been dead n’ gone so long,
We are just trying to call to you
And say
In a whither, in a gusted breath
Be careful with this good Old fertile Ocean bed my loved children.
Good night
For a while until we meet. And we will.

I walk with an ease
looking all around me
feeling at home
the trees dance
all about
the brush rubbing up
against my
exposed skin
everything playing
a beautiful harmony
yet this feeling
gnaws at me
what will become of you
lovey forest?
will the greed
and hate of the world consume you?
will you live to see our children play?
your tears will be not of life
but the sad and somber times
of remembering this walk
that happened well before

There’s a man that I see everyday,
who indeed casts shadows upon the ground.
He carefully chooses the words to say,
unless his friends are around.

He projects the best through his image,
although thoroughly tainted inside.
First glance would see privilege,
unless you see what he hides.

The scars of old, healed not with time,
although now covered with makeup.
Caused by gaping wounds before his prime,
each one a battle lost, forcing him to wakeup.

Regardless of all, he has loved to the fullest,
with a truly selfless heart.
Although he has survived the cruelest,
he would never play that part.

That’s the man that I see everyday,
my vision has never been clearer.
Suddenly, my mouth speaks words I could never convey,
when my gaze meets his, in the mirror.

In city streets, where history resides,
Stand splendid buildings as monuments of pride,
Each built from stone by skilled hands of before,
Tales in the details and carvings to adore.

Lurking in the skies, not seen nor forgiving,
Hovers menacing acid rain, slowly killing.
Through dissolution and alteration, creeps,
Eating stone as the city stands and weeps.

Roughened surfaces, substance stripped away,
Carved details fading with crumbling decay.
The past’s heritage is under attack,
From a silent killer, who won’t turn back.

No discrimination, no mercy shown,
On ancient palaces and structures well known:
From grand cathedrals to humble abodes,
Acid rain spares none, as it corrodes.

Within the clouds, where the sky meets the earth,
Lies the hidden danger of toxic birth.
Nitrogen oxides and sulfur dioxide,
They dance as one, in the air they collide.

Released from the burning flames far below,
They mix into a wet dangerous show.
The gas tangles with droplets of water,
Creating a fatal mix to slaughter.

Sulfur, a result of fossil fuel’s demise,
From coal to oil, it poisons the world’s skies.
Nitrogen oxides, from our cars’ exhaust –
A deadly concoction which leaves us lost.

In 1872, Robert Angus Smith
Warned of the danger of acid rain with
Damage to buildings and to statues fine,
The calcite dissolves – a tragic design.

Through the centuries, the effects do grow,
Displayed on monuments is a clear show
Of the power of industry’s great might –
To corrode and erode, causing a blight.

On the walk today, I spotted a tiny piece of bright orange
Barely visible under a big brown oak leaf.
Smaller than an acorn,
with an outer ring
Like pith on an orange peel
I bent down, brushed the leaf aside
There. A round tiny orange, white rimmed
Miniature piece of woodland.

I took a picture with my phone and saw the name.
“Orange Peel Fungus” Yes!
Leaves lazying down, covered this orange peel.
I pushed them aside.
There. A tiny world

A range of sizes from dime to micro tiny
Shock of startling color
Honored that I can see and celebrate their
Miniscule beauty.

There in the woody, pebbly, sandy ground
Groupings of tiny orange peel fungi stood out.
I sat, curious, and watched.

I saw no arguing, no battering, no hate.
Tiny circles of orange peel
Friends
Neighbors
Communities

One alone here, two together near-by
A large family over there.
A village, maybe several …

Perhaps, a Kingdom.

Who looks down on us, minuscule creatures that we are
Bruising with aggression and dishonor?

May we discover what the fungus shows –
Community and simplicity – living together

The bed of flowers
I was accustomed to
Treated by the gentle aroma
I always felt good

Then it all withered away
I didn’t know how to react
I picked some up
And they smelt bad

I stepped out to see,
What was wrong?
Beneath my flower bed
Lay a tunnel,
That spewed toxic waste all-round

The flowers and fauna
Had fallen ill
Thanks to the brazen human inkling.

a raccoon has taken
up residence in
the blue house
on the hill
it lounges in
the sideboard in
the front room
Clarence tries to
shoot it with
a small shotgun
which misfires
it is loaded with
an expended cartridge
he reloads it
and tries again
it misfires again
Martha shouts
not to hurt it

its golden jaws
unhinge like
a serpent’s
devours every leaf
swallows trees
crunches trunks
between its teeth
like candy

animals sprint for
the river
an orange tongue
envelops wild-eyed stags
drags them down
its throat
they plunge into
a flaming belly

insatiable
consuming fields
in seconds
flaring flowers
fleeing foxes
earth suffocates
beneath black skies

it takes what
it wants
it stops when
it starves

and it’s body is splitting in half
because it is sick, sick, sick
blue eyed and sick
green eyed and sick
unbrave in bed and sick
not rotting
because rotting became a trend now
maggots are in fashion
so it just exists in bed sick
misunderstanding itself
ribs crack sometimes
but do not break
skin cracks sometimes
but does not break
because everything breaks these days
and rots, rots
rotting is just not original anymore
so it is, simply, with no style
no hanging tree outside
no maggots
no rats under its bed