YARD DREAM

o my voiceless

my dry canticle 

how i am so deceased in the wind

please don't watch as i dance
and poem in desert masks

with this horrible deflated scorpion

somewhere rot keeps bugs alive
& that is a chain of life

but not here 

this desert is a converted mall that houses exactly nothing

but this is where the sun goes to masturbate

i am completely scorched and not kidding 

but i have to sing this, even if the sun gets off 

even at this shattered window decorated with 

human body bliss marks gone wrong (dead eyes,

dead arms wrapped around, spongy shell beads,

cushioned sexparts, vulture skin)

if you go down to the woods today

draw infant trees around you

with your gabbing scanty arms

ring your ears with seed fluff

mark matter, lick dirt

this is sin

i will try not to tell anyone what to do

this is what you can do

little kid laughter baits a lit rag

the sound of five eagles slamming

beaks against rocks against progress

drum how the west was won

they soar with cracked intensity

for the rest of us;

a teacup whacked with a bowling pin

human hills are sin gasping at

fountains of futuristic cyborg brains

zinging wit over the chirping corpse

of a mother hummingbird

from the amazon

peeling a leaf 

eyes down 

thinking-

why does the man gascan his children

forest, mother, precious sweet water-

just to die like a miser with chutes of meds

dripping chem to extend the ruse a bit?

does the root he chomps and swags

taste like blood, like this?

weren't we all born with one foot in

one foot hopping

one arm waving madly like a cyclone?

weren't we all once fundamentally children

with a forest in our tiny rib baskets?

a thing i've known ever since

my right arm was too short to reach over my head

and touch my left earlobe 

was this

the earth won't mourn us when we're gone

it won't miss our children