The Trees Have Been My Friends

The trees have been my friends.

When oblivious businessmen
go to their upscale gyms and afterwards
clink their glasses of red wine
together over steak dinners
I will be able to say
I was nestled in a house of impoverished people
where I dreamed the ancient dreams
of the microcellular arrangements
from a very long time ago
and there beside it,
though not in sterile air conditioned
air,
there, on the stagnant outskirts of an
industrially polluted city,
there the trees have still come to live
and the trees,
the trees still loved me,
the trees still loved them,

and the trees have been my friends.

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Turn To The Land

  


Let us turn to the land.
You and me.
You.
From this pollution.
The purpose of humans.
Turn. Turn. Turn to the land.
Or abandon the pollen fallen
from willows.
At night the stars show
then in day still burning.
We refute such odd existence.
Being but not yearning.
So turn as a plow turns,
turn as the leaf turns,
turn as the tree turns.
Turn from the rock, bone,
threshed into soil.
Turn. Turn. Turn to the land.

Cult Of Ideas

Asking for the interview

Not the cult of celebrity

But the cult of ideas

We’re interested

When sitting in the cabin

On the stagnant crusty carpet

Mildewy

By the river Clackamas

In the winter

With the cosmos swirling and swirling

Overhead

The cult of that which

Makes us

Unmakes us

Undoes our heads

So we can have biological life

Not in any form like synthesis

To the speaker speaking to us