the tiny consolations of nature in poison world. remnants.

bee in lily, for sarah l 

most of the see is mirage, and despite the manufacturers of our discontent, we are immanently susceptible to wonder.

mister in his green bath 

release

your

assumptions 

i will never know why the willow is gone and in it's hollow is a silver suit.

pause 

verger

and trail

we do not identify dogs in terms of their physical characteristics. we identify dogs for example in terms of a property of psychic continuity. like if a witch turns a dog into a camel and then some fairy princess, uh, kisses the camel and it turns back into a dog, it's been a dog all along even if it might look like a camel. now that's the basis of fairy tales.psychic continuity is not a physical property. it's property we impose on things. noam chomsky. he remarks there are inherent mysteries beyond our comprehension. but says we go from dust to dust. he is casual about his own demise, but can't get over that of his wife. reading a rachel carson biography i hear the same obfuscations about ddt that government business applies to fracking and chemical dispersants today. the worls as status quo, the world as business contra life. the steady accumulation of poison and poison thought, for the profit of our rulers.

after the morning storm i was relieved but people are cagey with residual storm. i avoid them but copp seems to gravitate toward that jangly energy. i call him away.

mister water.

once again, ad eternum, we celebrate war, while the bees go about gathering pollen and nectar, making propolis

explosions in the sky 

and bodies on the street

and me and copp in a yellow study, he licking my ear

every day i'm trying to get the feeling 

with explosions in the background

leg hands and mandibles

and little spiders in little worlds at my feet