Bay Street Bus Terminal at 2:23 PM
A small bird travels between the feet, one joyful hop at a time. It's accustomed to the careless giants that move about,
and it knows nothing but doors and trick glass and steel and cement. I doubt
it's ever seen a natural, unabashed forest in its lifetime. Nor have I, but I belong to
the rapists of land, molesting everything natural that should ever cross our paths. I'm not an exception, I type poems
on my smartphone and wear nothing but name brands, I travel by burning oil and I consume everything from plastic cases and my protein comes from animals
that sit in cages, their feet crushing old food and new **** but I don't like to think about it. So I won't,
and I'll keep on enjoying the company of a small bird that can't even conceptualize a forest.
Jan 31, 2016
Jan 31, 2016 at 2:31 PM UTC
Bay Street Bus Terminal at 2:23 PM
A small bird travels between the feet, one joyful hop at a time. It's accustomed to the careless giants that move about,
and it knows nothing but doors and trick glass and steel and cement. I doubt
it's ever seen a natural, unabashed forest in its lifetime. Nor have I, but I belong to
the rapists of land, molesting everything natural that should ever cross our paths. I'm not an exception, I type poems
on my smartphone and wear nothing but name brands, I travel by burning oil and I consume everything from plastic cases and my protein comes from animals
that sit in cages, their feet crushing old food and new **** but I don't like to think about it. So I won't,
and I'll keep on enjoying the company of a small bird that can't even conceptualize a forest.
Request permission to use this poem