Demonocene

Turkeys and deer are somewhat
Less striking than coyotes,
Less impressive than the rats—

After all, you had to pause
Hunting them down for them
To spring back—but coyotes

And rats rise up despite hunts,
Bounties, poison-baited traps,
Brutal culls, gruesome displays.

Cockroaches and ants as well
Earn more credit than pigeons
Or the aerobatic swifts

Who nest in underpasses
And hunt above snarling trucks—
Those synanthropes who won’t go

No matter how you kill them
Almost seem to be possessed
By soul, like you, you demons.

Sparks

The daylight starts glowing again
Among indistinct rocks and dirt,
Grey pearls of Nevada’s desert.

Yeh, yeh. It’s almost amazing,
At any given moment, each
And any one of you’s alive,

Given all your lives are lived out
Under continuous fireworks
Every spark of which contains death.

So long as none of those embers
Lands on you, more than grazes you,
Here you are, aware, more fireworks.

Let one brilliantly plumed rainbow
Of fire fall far enough to touch
Your head, and you’re dying or dead.

The daylight starts glowing again,
And it’s time to dodge some more sparks.
You’ve slept well while flames lick the bed.

Mind Gives You a Piece of Your Mind

Listen, kid. Almost everything
You do that might could determine
Your life’s arc, your trajectory,
Your overall chance of success,

Will involve your interactions
With your fellow humans, their goals,
Their wants, their own plans for success.
You can almost forget the rest,

The ecosystems, the weather,
The disposition of the world.
Those who manipulate humans
Magnificently do the best.

But don’t be surprised when the world
Occasionally intervenes.
The hardest thing about the world
Is how indirectly it links

Or responds to your maneuvers
And passions, honed generations
On generations for messing
With fellow human minds. The world,

At least all its nonhuman parts,
Saving your few domesticates,
Hasn’t been selected to mind
What you’re thinking about doing.

Wish what you want. Seek out patterns
In the waves, the wind, and the stars,
Any sign you’re part of the grand
Design. Mind that design’s in mind.

One Wish Would Spring to Life

It’s so fun to fool yourself,
To see a Theo Jansen
Giant lightweight sculpture move

In the wind as if walking,
Insect-like across the sand.
Make a thing looks like a life,

Disproportionate, not quite.
Let ambient energy
Set it in motion, then laugh

For sheer delight. It’s alive!
You know it’s not. You know you
Would be struck dumb with terror,

If your elaborate toys
Turned their faces to the wind
And bore down on you, against

That ambient energy,
Defying you, defying
Entropy. But still. You wish.

Ground Fine, Still Sharp to the Taste

There’s nothing poignant
Without reflection
And enough life,

That is memory
Left of life, sorrow,
At least solitude,

And the sin of still
Rumination. Fine,
Be mindful, escape

Into narratives,
Flow, focus, hard work,
And meditation.

Still, the simple mill
Wheel, rumination,
Sifting memory,

Grinds small the calm hour
With rough, pointed griefs
That sting, as they should.