thoughts that spin in the winding up days of a short-long summer, trying to make patterns in that simple chaos.. :
Survey this touching story from a distance:
we baked in the sun, alone, eyeing
nude bodies like starving wolves, polite
(like eagles that eat small dogs of tourists
who, naive, never expected nature to be so
inconsolably destructive.)
The hippies who wander in forests, to lie
like logs (lay like dogs - left in
cars while we trip)
.... annnnd summer! who grabbed us by the ribs
took our children. took our fire.
(we rush to the sand, to relax,
lie in water)
and, finally, chanting with the be-lovers,
question the names:
strangle hippies
banging in hot tents.
make poems a priority while we drive,
and talk and talk and talk
this moving meditation....
that it feels awful to be drawn,
drained, and buzzing, trying to close eyes;
detect the throb of the earth.
detect the throb of the earth.
detect the throb of the earth.
through the cement.
our ancestors. they dreamed of us.
they dreamed this. that we would be here.
we must change the way we think.
we must change;
orgasms the shape of africa.
