Thursday, January 17, 2013

Like Hand Claps

Your dead tree
Running down the middle of my dead spine.

Just waiting to be milled into 2x4s
for that suburban room addition
you been dreaming about for years.

I could find hope
if the ax didn't fall faster
with each passing hour
(like hand claps).

Your finger on the power button
foot on the gas, hand to god
and eyes on the screen.

Transfixed, it's hard to see
the shrinking glacier and drowning polar bear.
These things don't capture the imagination
quite like the siren song of our affluence.


With Lightning Fire

These cold shadows
   Left by the Ancestors
What secrets do they keep?
Is your knowledge lost?
How should our Mother grieve?
      with floods
      with quakes
      with storms
      with lightning fire
With all manner of stirring to
Shake the virus from her
It seems as though
human gods have
Our Mother
Where is the good medicine?

She's become my Wolfangel 
and in that transmutation,
there is no turning back.
Only the fury of an unlocked sun.
Millions of tiny sunspots
ruin vision, create new insite.
Don't put the flowers in the vase;
put them in your mouth.
Let the taste wake you to the oneness
of what they represent:
That you can never escape your liberation.