January heatwave,
blessed fires that bring
sacred heat.
June monsoons
bring a gray
more ominous than before.
Oh Mother Earth,
I beg you to explain
why you took away birdsong from us?
Great waves come to claim
the children who never had time
to learn how to swim.
On the shoreline,
the shells have dissolved
leaving in their wake
bits of plastic and polyester.
Hubris alone is responsible
for these altered winds.
How the enemy is always
just over the next hill
and never within us.
Oh, Patrons of electric bikes
and oat milk,
deliver us from evil
and please grant us sainthood
with a metal straw!
To be good is to be fucked.
To be alive is to live
with knowledge that
each breath you buy comes
at the expense of an other’s.
We’ve been blowing up mountains
for millennia,
but the demolition crew has yet
to break foundation
for another world.
Oh, green capital! Oh, colonial kings!
Make us into history.
Dull the colors of spring
and then autumn,
spray us with fire retardant snow
so we may make angels
under the peaceful rumble
of warplanes.
Convince us we can live forever.
We self-soothe
through the end of the world,
touching soft things,
transfixed.
Forms of Love 