STATE OF NATURE 

 It’s not a matter
 of it being a
 hummingbird society
 one bright blue and green flash
 patrolling the flowers with
 an aerial perambulation

 Nor is it bees
 in honeycombed hierarchies
 moving to an invisible music
 we muse emanates from
 a queen’s symphonic throne
 the throb and hum of
 spring in Andalusia
 where honey pours from a
 dead burro on the road to Granada

 It’s that we are pollen
 blown in profusion
 that flowers are everywhere
 though they have a
 brief season
 troops stop to tell us
 this is the part that’s
 nasty brutish and short
 no tabula rasa but
 that we are many and scatter
 a wide net towards freedom
 

A MODEST ANARCHIST PROPOSAL

I’m sorry to write
of art and revolution once again
Dear native country
it is a melancholy object
all in rags
but what is common
publick and profound
but a song gathering voices
to its dim glimmer of tomorrow
to which the bricks of
ancient buildings seemed
to step closer in order to hear
the pathetic fallacies
of our competitive ways and means
and it became all too apparent
beauty was an exercise of will
against the angels of death
hoarding the cold capital
of torment in blighted talons
you see – we throw it
freely from our lungs
and history where we speak
of misery hurls it back
in fuller songs
of fields fruit and forests
the workers in and amongst
shouting in unison
and felling towering trees.

Did that make any sense?
I have too long digressed
upon some persons
of a desponding spirit
we the anarchists
open a wound in the side
of Leviathan letting
the people out
trepanning a revolution
on the skulls of states
look – the vigorous carry
lethargic work to windward
look – in the lea
of governments others
gather goalless and
open to discussion
and fierce without command:
open what was once common
forgo fencing
create a condition
of profitless volunteerism
lift the ego
from the base of the feet
tripping totality
and see where the chips fall
as you pull one end
of the saw and I the other

It’s not as strange
as it sounds.
A cherish light streams
from neglect. I can
read my unrecorded
records by its pool. Now.
Imagine a utopian struggle.
Imagine it as a video game.
Imagine setting the high score.