the land is fat

full vernal pools and

all the little trickles, through the

stonewalls sunk deeper in the mud than

they were just a few days ago

the snow only lingers in the shadows, the moss is green
on the soft spongy ground.

that sound of 

cavitation:

a cubic foot here 

and a cubic foot there, all springing from
the running land.

the land is Fat,

springs spring eternal

rebirth (what a theme!):

the vernal pools chirrup at night

the warm air full of moisture, that sweet sex smell of
almost summer (it's too soon!)

the dinosaur slowly stirs,

all the details are forgotten

in the primordial mouth

sweep sweep sweepbrace

squirt ! surf!
 the land phat

the river juicy

plump and crispy

frosties and the wheaties and the 

undigested toilet paper

a foamy brown syrup

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

i love chicken i love chicken yes I do !

and I love my antibiotic soup !

to swim in

everybody pooops ...

the land is phat, overflowing now, the ground itself is raining, 

and the rain just keeps juicing, and the land is blooming,

the air is cleaner 

and the land is PHAT !

the fish are jumping and the

human
piscine bird shit stinks 

and the herons gawk, so slowly

before a strike.

dinosaur poem #3

the atmosphere traps more heat than it used to

even from 

when I was a child

thats a fact

and I can feel it 

the ozone layer aint what it used to be

even if the ground level ozone

aint what it used to be either 

it doesn’t work the same anyways

and my arms are just starting to look old

flecked tan and white white and tan

the baltic is a long way away

and it aint what it used to be 

either.

—

we were blessed to 

evolve in a time of plenty

riding the cycles (According to William Calvin)

of boom bust bust boom

opportunistically cooperating to munch 

the grazing animals

and gather the seeds of grasses 

sprung up in the wake of enormous fires (often set by us)

and sometimes,

devouring each other.

—

the river is phat still

a bit muddy, too dark to see the shad even more ferociously roiling 

in the big eddy below the concrete overflow

“I haven’t got a bite all day” he says

I think I got about 5 bites just on my paddle I say

the fish aren’t hungry

they want to fight.

—

but its heron season, shad season

whatever you want to call it

a young beaver

or muskrat is at ease in the high water

another hole to hide in

they are gone

— 

flocks of cormorants sit

on the rocks drying their wings in the morning.

big groups of them, like undertakers

black eyes staring at the sun.

—-

the bluebells are out in a plenty 

says John

I thought they were a fence

says Tom

I had just begun to notice them overpowering

the yellow of the violets.

i’m barely awake these days

the senses deadened

by the heat of the morning.

—-

like an animal

it makes you feel

fighting for survival

or just backwards surfing 

enjoying the heck out of the crashing 

chunderous waves 

that will knock you back

down and out

of your boat.

3 is a good number.

safety 3rd.

—

there’s still a dinosaur down there

head pointed down river

neck vertebrae now visible (at 4.8 on the government gauge above the city’s water intake)

but their tail is covered, and

the meatcleaver spine is just a massive lump of water

hiding a terminal hole.

the beast is always hungry.

satiated

it sleeps.

a 4.91 poem

after the long eddy paddle
down from old angler's (a few nice surfs here and there)
yellow falls, the offut waves, stubblefield

in my mind there is only
that wave - formed for a second there - massive, planar, glassy but surging
at the top breaking foam
probably surfable amidst the frosties.

the low tide drops out from
below the rocks
barely visible and too jagged to form the grand canyon 3-d wave box
too flushy for the boat
eating whirlpools to form
it's still plenty munchy.

it's rowdy rowdy rowdy
and whooping past the fishing crowd
i can't see a damn thing but white
brown
brown
brown
running the brown
claws down

patches of color on the bank
stern sweep sweep
stern sweep sweep
stay upright
brace
sweep to angle surf past the friendly rocks now looking mean.

take a shower when you get home
to flush the brown back down
out to the bay where supposedly,
it belong.

double sided picket fence

the double sided picket fence

never noticed before

except for the sloppy spray job

of paint on the rhododendron leaves and holly trunks

a squirrel nest in the big cherry tree extending its flowers to the sky

and the petals keep on falling falling falling

in the early morning sun.

in rojava they rejoice for spring? and hezbollah overextends

away from home and

into the turmoil of big fish

fighting a shrinking net

as the earth warms

exhaust fills my lungs

and the organs slightly blacken

trees bark split

along the sidewalk a few suckers sprout

will they be cut down?

the squirrels have stayed busy digging

holes in the lawn where

their walnut size brains

can remember a million nuts.

and the backyard doesn’t drain like it used to

it’s all slowly settling

along the too thin foundation

built in the frenzy after the Last GREAT war

back when they were openly kicking blacks out of the neighborhood

before it was uncool to be racist

and you had to blame the market.

the river is pumping

running brown

with sand and silt and human shit

and the chickens all cooped up

and the cows all chickened together

it’s swirling swirling

robins sing and finches twitter, the siskins are out

digging for bugs in the branches.

the woods are full of hedera helix,

the ground ivy, and eurasian honeysuckles,

herb robert - the ubiquitous pelargoniums,

and crowded with the feet of europeans (I among them).

the cardinals beak:

purposefully asymmetrical to shed shells of

seeds with no fingers or teeth to speak of.

love blossoms down in the ivy, 

my neighbor’s (the sociopath) cat stalks across the yard,

and affection is like a battery, needing a circuit to work and be recharged,

even if through murder of the unsuspecting squirrel or songbird.

land of no sympathy

in the country of no shame

you must never ask for help

in the country of no sympathy

you are always by yourself

it’s hard not to think of all the 

white men

who 

were told they were special

because their life was easy

(at least relatively)

and who were stomped upon nevertheless

by the same system that

used them to oppress

and now

flocking to a voice that told them they are indeed victims

they are willing to recreate the mess

(spurred ever onwards through the land of no sympathy)