There is an end to shadows.
Burned away by the fireball
drunk like chocolate by the earth
licking its foamy lips with the tides.
Mountain ranges, humming birds,
bricked cities, called to cold
sucked into the edgeless kingdom.
Death is a toe-nail paring,
an oily sack in the weeds.
The beggar on plastic sacks
laughs in her sleep. Waking,
remembers only the punch-line-
something about caring
for the women of Afghanistan.
Flat on its ass, Death begs
nickels, clutches its dog
against a stained coat, hisses
by on fat rubber tires cradling
a cell-phone, fiddles with the radio
tuning out static
Racoons litter the roads--- smashed pumpkins.
We are stealing the fish of the starving
to feed our cats. SUV’s tattooed
with answers I have not requested,
foul the air like cows shitting the creeks
where they drink.
The wind does not move the flag.
The flag does not move in the wind.
The wind does not not move the flag.
The flag does not not move in the wind.
What might amplify
the Jericho trumpets of swans.
Causes Peter Coyote Supports
The Global Security Institute, Native Sovereignty Issues, Wild Earth( Natural Corridors Program),