i saw Baraka. i wish they would make a new one.

wade in the fire,  jeff buckley sang, and, my time comes, and i am not afraid, afraid to die. before long, he waded into a river undertow and disappeared.

grim old me

i can't stand what we do

little lights join

nature boy

savings

selvage 

stop fracking people

strange negotiation redux

the experts are making it up as they go,  paycheck to paycheck

the fawn with cotton ear. i put cotton to soften the thuglife. the fawn was torched last year, her patina darkened but greening again. i think perhaps her ear hosts a caterpillar sleeping. isn't it to late for a butterfly?

the golden age

the human horror, the horrid waste

what would the earth be without us. there would be dogs i hope, but not of our design.

there would be lush abundance and no war

there would be trees unmeasured by millennia or saw

those eyes. the feeling of falling backward.

yeah. wade in the fire.

what can we celebrate. we can celebrate the trees and everything left of nature that is here and is threatened.

but what have we become

what have we become. what were we.

when we do the same thing, over and over, until exhaust claims us 

what were we. without us. what would earth be.