Organics

Dead reckoning is a helluva thing
esto no es el toro-rojo
it didn't give us no wings
so we learned to craft a thing or three
and now we sail eternally
towards our tombstone—the end of we!


Living with two oppositional notions in either hand
we only survive by our home but we don't believe in ownership of land
we want to be forgotten so we write our poems in sand
blow them out in smoke rings for the cats, as they demand
we don't ascribe to nations, we are West of the Rio Grande


vervet viper's venom bile
tripod black widow with a smile
sheet metal steel tusk'd reptiles
a carriage-worm with self-cleaning aisles
positions require occupants
our globe is ordered like tenements
a certain level will be maintained
with humans on her, or just a stain


is every tree a wannabe?
every bush and flower!
how good can we be, really?
you're the one with executive power!
what about the other poets?
do they have a muse and does she know it?
fair enough you gorgeous little beast
get back to work, we need a feast.