I live in one of those small
mostly untainted towns
not trendy, just funky and innocent
the kind that’s becoming rara villa en terra.
No Starbucks.

But modern winds bring dust and particles
from larger cities around.
They have infected our fauna
which are morphing before our eyes.

Last week I was at the pond
where the deer come to drink at dusk
and my heart broke.

There was that huge seven-point whitetail buck
the one I so admired
huge, taut and fast
but instead of hooves
he was trod with Goodyear offroad tires.
He saw me see him
and embarrassed turned and sped away into the trees
leaving rubber treadmarks in the loam.

On a trail behind your eyes,lies a ring, upside down, pointing up to the falls where the numb started The unadulterated laughter of a girl in green kneesocksFalls only on the earsOf a boy with a knife on his belt, and sand in his eyes Hands bound, false grip, Nothing exists years below Salt fills the red skyNaïve curls under a coin that wont come down Blackout. The last spark, faint on the sandy pavementBlack smoke, oncoming trafficCraw, cry, oil, treadmarks Choking on a white flagShe will not exaleSidelines overflowBlack socks, black knees, black sky Silhouettes, pale eyes, tv screensStiff and awake on a shore of ashes and shattered plates. She dives. Nakedly emersed in an undisturbed paradiseRomanced by a ghost, leagues under a sea of quicksand Tides shiftSay goodbye as the world turnsAnd we claw our way to this bottle’s rim Echos of a broken hourglass throughout a subway tunnelShe smiles, leaning on righteous cold tile walls Pass the saltFour years and right on timeBreathe.

We should be hardened cynics,
Putting plywood on our windows,
Yellow tape around our homes,
Cautioned shouting,
Never doubting
Who is number One,
In a race that's nearly done.
The finish line's stopped moving,
We hope to be disproving
The infallibility of man.
And thus we sit waiting,
Anticipating chaos,
Spinning the wheels of commerce,
Leaving treadmarks on the innocents
Who needn't to be literate
To mark their X to obliterate.
Like a ****** on a mission,
With cross-hairs on the decision.

Foreign flecks float past pupils.
Disappeared plodding pastimes
lost to careless childhood.

Venetian blinds slanting goodbye.
Concrete clings to temples,
eyelids vacuumed shut--

Tired.
Tire treadmarks track testaments
to this languid laziness.  
Spitting passion flakes into melted butter
hardened in the fridge

Let me melt.
Sink simply.

Poressely placing precedence,
burdened backs break
under pressure of
heavy nothingness.

Apathetic apples plucked
just out of reach.

Follow those foreign flecks floating
in your peripheral.

Daunting, Doting,
Don’t

Give up.
Look up.