March 13, 2016

Sylvilagus transitionalis (Bangs) The New England Cottontail

“All the world will be your enemy, Prince with a Thousand Enemies, and whenever they catch you, they will kill you. But first they must catch you, digger, listener, runner, prince with the swift warning. Be cunning and full of tricks and your people shall never be destroyed.” 

― Richard Adams, Watership Down

i've only ever thought 
eyewasthe great seasonal 
confluence of iconography 
determining nothing 
dimensions mention ed in passing 
third person field arrays 
and pulse wave pattern seekers 
cling weary tenacious bones 
what do soulsdecide deride incise mete 
and mean, for instance 
is value constant fluctuation
a conifer consensual-ity or 
thirsty cycle moorings untied 
are the ides of march field 
and bramble living chant reach...

i confer with a coin-op 
next to a thriftstoregreen 
enamel painted tin, collecting clothes 
i will steal into it later on 
when no one is looking
i am over here right now 
smoking a cigarette 
still high wearing stain 
whet goatskin breath wine

there are some times when i dare the universe 
to listen while pretending i work the night shift 
sleeping in my car with night wrapped around me 
so that I can be woken by the birds just before sunrise 
i drink coffee at this convenient store 
watching a real world go by 
i scrape and claw 
making sure my mind 
is still inside me 
\walk unseen behind the dumpster to pee
say things to myself 
that i want to say out loud 
about howthankful i am 
for what the wind brings
the weather for one 
and frankly that's enough for me
but it also eats our skin cells 
and tells us when it is time to do 
things both with certainty 
and happenstance-ish opportunity 

well, you did leave a dish out 
for the fae when you prayed 
to your no one special, right? 

white anglo saxon protestant 
declarative patina is 
i've only e ver thought 
aloof roof was great 
perspective maybe
ihavewhite privilege maybe 
afew perks definitely 
i could not help but see 
the way more melanin 
increases awareness 
of differential treatments 
even low income housing 
where everyone was poor 
and connected by subsidy 
how you decorate walls 
with pictures and things 
that turn you on 
when nothing matters 
but pleasing the senses 
is the same, whoever 
you are...

growing up 
poets grind 
sum day(s)maybe 
do we all press smells, share 
class warfare titillation 
civic structural religions 
papacies with codes 
of conduct for public 
and private affairs 
fanaticism between the lines 
in the dark capture-womb-cameras
of our blinks...

there must always be 
an adherence to what semblance of family
seeps through to you from 
where ancients see

old coal chute ghosts 
laced with lace kerosene and other 
easy fuel smells we learned 
to live with like thin bread 
and zig-zag back stairwells 
that lead to back alleys...

i don't remember exactly when i decided 
structured society was full of shit 
and that i'd rather be a weed

probably cause i knew early ear to the ground age young 

this world didn't give a fuck about you 
and faith was becoming scarce

when it came to common ground  
you played perhaps 
in crumble towns of anthracite, along
rivers and railroads, i think i knew whistle stop 
was what poem said 
would end up carrying 
all this observable freight anyways...



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