A walk through the neighborhood is actually more like frolicking through the neighborhood i stop to watch bees diligent and effortless in their work dozens of them appear from the orange poppies then reemerge elsewhere— there’s no telling how many a car door slams and i think how silly or simple i look and i get embarrassed for being the gentle observer— so easily amused but we shouldn’t be embarrassed, the gentle observers, in being able to take joy in simple pleasures
pass under a horsechestnut look upon the mace fruit green with youth and i know because science tells me that the fruit is the product of the flower, that is, the fruit comes after the flower, i can’t help but think that perhaps the flower is a veil around our attention and that the fruit was there ripening all along and with the withering of the flower the fruit emerges like the bee under the scope of our attention and i think. . . perhaps that’s all i’ve ever been— a gentle observer
What border edge is far enough? What wall plenty high? Domesticate. Eradicate. The human race. Highways snake like veins, or a river, or a blade. We carry always with us the guilt of fear. Investment. Property. Economy. Paving the world. . . we’ve got our hands stretched over a dying fire.
The state of Washington terminated the remaining members of the OPT wolf pack in Ferry county, while we camped in Mt. Rainier Nat’l forest. Isn’t our search for freedom in the confines of these borders, under flags, sort of ironic? It’s a battle that has continued throughout human history, our battle with the wolves.
The modern Poet towers over me, standing on piles of words, handheld degrees, like a decree, held tightly against the chest. Why is it that modern poetry makes me feel so small every time I venture to read it?
Outside the window, moment after moment, the night sky flashes in a brilliance of lightshow. Bursting from the shadow of memory, thunder rumbles and rolls on and on into the dark. We all stop. Rehearsing the truth in my mind, I had nothing to say. The dog trembles in tremolo. In the shatterd nightsky, crackling eggs. We momentarily left our houses, built on convenience, and entered a bliss built by the ancients.