me and lulu sitting in a tree.

lulu's back. we walked south by the old running track. people were using it since obomba's new one was ordered halted. the geese scuttled off indignant. we walked around the stalled track and over to the island. we saw the blue beamer and a hunched diminutive crone guarding the bridge, the poisoner levy. they were burning the island and forbade us entry, so we had to go by way of the bobolink(less) meadow yet un-scorched where we saw loosie mockury riding a golf cart, her crazed face squinched magoo-myopically, perhaps smiling. we saw a coyote running away from the fire and smoke of the burning island. the coyote had a wild and frightened look and melted through the chain-link fence into the fortunately closed driving range. she might have been killed by sport projectiles. i said to john, there are more trees marked for death with pink spray paint. i think the war on invasive species is a forever war, like the wars on dark skinned people, invaders on land that claimed by alrighty then might when they elitely expansively desire the space. they thought they lived there, the denizens. they'll have to think again, someplace else. citizens, gentrizens, moving in. there are invaders everywhere, including me, who spits on the beam of the poison levy. i think they will change the name, once all the invasive species are killed, cut down, burned out or run terror stricken out of space, including me, from jackson to obomba park, no, it will be obombaland, at least in his head, it sounds more exotic, like his own country, though the private fundation will claim it to be of the people by the people for the people, publicly. it will be a land of great lawn with a massive white erection presiding, a grand dominion, gift of the people, the wildlife, monument to the man cum lately.