Poetry

Where Do All the Bones Go?

And how do foundations work,
when there’s nothing but rocks
and probably dirt, I assume,
but I’m no expert
so let’s not presume what’s exhumed –
excuse me.
I got ahead of myself.
I saw a picture
of a beautiful museum
built on rocks by the sea,
like, RIGHT BY the sea,
and one of the comments said
“It’ll be really sad when it falls in.”
I don’t want that future.
So what kind of sutures
are sewn into cut-open land
to hold that structure there,
as sure
as a closed hand?
My words aren’t technical enough,
and some aren’t technically right,
but, well,
I just
wonder about these things.

I dream of a world
where all the buildings stand forever
and all the bones stay together.

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Poetry

Rewilding

I recall my cultivation.
The gardeners: former lovers,
friends, moving lecturers
for a semester or two.

My soil the life through which I walk,
roots taking and not taking,
light and water passing to me
from books and songs and
and movies sometimes,
poetry stirring petals,
blooming and resting
as seasons require.

The growth is ongoing,
the process on-growing.
Keep it up, seedling.

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Poetry

Coming Soon: whyPhone

My god, the lights in the valley
coulda been anything:
a cluster of advanced science centers,
a web of self-sustaining cabin homes,
an invitation to a party
with thousands of entrances,
a peaceful civilization that’s accepted
the encroachment of the dark.

Instead, we have
traps of all sizes, mostly
in square shapes;
the stuck people
are too tired to think,
too busy to clean,
too sad to entertain,
and too mad
to accept the dark.
We shall all
light the night with our
tiny computers
and hope that wi-fi
is the only connection we need.

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Poetry

Rumination on Settling

They stole
all this land
and cut it into
disgusting chunks
that we buy
from a big plate
called “real estate”
but it’s all fake,
these deeds
should be worthless,
and every slice
from this giant
thieves’ pie
draws money from us
while they swarm
like flies
to eat our
putrid offal,
and I’m disgusting
’cause I wait,
and watch the knife
come down,
one more serving
from settler chef
to settler customer;
close the store,
this was never ours.

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