Tagged: the Humans

Fish Could Mean a Thing to Say

it makes more sense
to pave
just two strips of driveway

or to drive on the lawn
repeatedly. one of my neighbors
threw a bunch of beer cans
down

and drove over those
now it’s flat, glinting
like scales
off a gut fish. they still add to it

a few Coors a night
during winter. sitting around
the campfire, cooking perch
the smell of a tree’s
tense changing

and i find it hopeful
that even
in this day
and age

there are still
hazardous settlers
we must burn
off our meat

and fish
to trick out of water
with string

The Race

A pickup truck, its doors open
The arms open
of a full-breasted man singing
Box-spring octaves
and accordion squeezing
Tejano music easing
around houses
like juice swirled in a cup
I am not inside my head
At all?
A boy with long red shorts comes running past
His shorts are like the summers here
His ankles are like the winter
in that they turn back over
when they are rolled
The boy trips, is ran past by others
They are running to the truck
where girls have started dancing in the bed
The truck is heaving
One of the racers is not leaving
He turns his head to look
at the fallen boy. But his body hasn’t stopped
He keeps running, looking back
He sees me. I see him. In a way
we see everyone, sometimes, for
a second. The way our heads
are placed askew
onto already moving bodies
The look of surprise
genuine surprise
at not being able to stop

Fell Asleep Watching Planet Earth

I see with light that is shoved
on trays beneath my eyelids
Yellow kernels of hominy
Their fuzzy skins

I must be awake
A wake is the tower of dirt
behind a herd
of grazing animals

Consider those long, sweeping
Planet Earth shots
above our traffic. People
undulating toward places

they don’t want to go. Like
gazelles nearing water
They can’t get us all
if we all go at once

Joan Rivers Addiction Specialist

If I’m honest
there’s an envy
being scolded

the briefest gold
sepulcher
of wanting to die

I could sit
atop my headstone
tallying visitors

watch them
sift for time
in their pockets

finding none
pull out scarf
after scarf

I could call them
names like
‘Joan Rivers’

So much
time
in a day!

compared to life

So much down
to the way
we think

For instance, I
just learned
that sticker burrs
are really seeds
that they ride on us
even
when seeds
are eaten freely
by so many
animals

So it’s harder
and harder
to walk
by yourself

plants
grab hold

and people
present
their faces to you
like balloons

They have
miracle answers
to well-rehearsed
questions

and give you
some leaf print
of being

Remember being
young? was it that far
from being dead?
aren’t they both
just doing
the same thing
over and over again
without
getting tired of it?

Future Fire Building

My job is to give
some hope of love
to the woman
at the bus-stop, the one
with her binoculars
who tells a story
of buses coming
and gets the kids off their music
She is built for love
We are all built for love
somehow, even with our
breathing and water sloshing
Even with our bones
in perfect sleep position
against our poses
Even with so many acres
of blood, being able
to see our blood for miles
as if structures
had been lifted from it
How can there be room
for such a giant-chested
lightness as love?
That feels like someone
pointing the way
with their fist?
How high is the river?
Tell me again
about the good old days, when
nothing mattered more
than a fire
built suitably

Yell Fuck at Farmer’s Market

Twice now, it is windy
A woman selling teabags
has run from her stand
to collect its contents

She does a thing that most
of my great loves have done –
yells FUCK
then asks me to wait

So I’m waiting
The paper squares floating
are like copies
of the same tiny letter

I wonder if the word Great
has ever preceded Love
in my case
If Love as moving expanse

is measured in paces
or if it is more like
water being
held inside a room

I guess it doesn’t matter
A family selling peaches
has abandoned their post
to help the woman with her tea

Their jars instead hold
suspended organs, misshapen
toads in formaldehyde
I imagine even the good stuff away

Like how being alive
is more like
selling the thing you’ve made
until it’s a good life

The Truth According to Bigfoot

Are there
two
black women
or a
white vase

A potter
or
masseur
of clay

A carousel
or
drill
on turn
by horses

All of us
more
than just one
thing. All of us
until
we are dead

All of us
liars. Liars
in love
with
beautiful stories
about
truth

And truth?
It is
something
we might
have seen

Something
walking upright
in the
forest
like a man

We Were Here

An injured hawk circles the circumference
of its tether, resting occasionally on a glove
attached to the fence. Clouds gallop over
mountains, shedding their snow like loose summer hair
I’ve seen no people between Moab and New Mexico
Just the signs of people. There’s a town called
Many Farms where TB medication was tested in the 50s
Several hand-written signs for Xbox repair
A stray dog at the Conoco eating what remains
of a sandwich. The school sits half-excavated
from the rock. You or I take pictures from the car
I wonder where the people are, and if a land
so unforgiving is ever asked

No Such Thing as People

I have seen the chest of sky
at her deepest breath

A black sky draped like cloth
over a table I am under

The stars are glistening – they
are juices inside of melons

peaches, bad people. There is
no such thing as bad people

Just good people eating
the same things over and over

ignoring the plates of strange
misshapen people

that become our soil. See the
children in the soil

Watch them touch the sky
on a mountain of dirt

The Hermit Crab Writes to the Woodpecker About People

Poor old woodpecker
tried the telephone pole. Forty-thousand
calls, dropped into the sea

Of all the things the humans say
how much of them
have been said forever?

I am hungry. I am thirsty
I am crawling inside
something else to sleep

I can’t come to the phone right now
I am staying behind
on my own
to fidget with the mammoth carcass

Maybe its bladder
can be made into a bladder!

It’s your night to cook
Where are the hand attachments?
The forks, the knives, the spears
Why do hands make
such inadequate weapons
that we should have to
consider what we hold
before killing, before pulling off
the side of the road?

How long have words
been a part of the head?

Slanted lights
in black water, used
for tricking
smaller fish
into listening,
into getting
uncomfortably close