All the nature, the nature
it just isn't natural anymore.
Who will read a poem written
about the wilderness that is a blade of grass
or the house that is a great oak
a thousand times?
The words, they're stale.
But I'm sure those masters never thought
images of spring would fall limp and gray
as a pile of winter sloughing of dead skin.
And that's sad,
but it's not a shame.
We are the children of nature,
but not this docile,
powdered whore who they call our mother.
I have a window, and right outside it, is a tree.
I can look at it anytime I feel like I need to return to the fold of Earth.
But, I have a double layer of curtains,
because I feel like it.
I think they forget that nature is a brute monkey,
a hyena feasting on discards,
hair growing underneath the arms.
Stealing, that is nature.
Kindness is a corruption of what is natural.
Yet, we have learned from our mother's drunken mistakes.
We are better than her, we don't have to reassure ourselves.
But we still don't own her, we cannot own what gave us, us.
Why then the odes that go on for hours in endless
self-conscious praise of a matriarch,
who left us at ten, snotnosed and dumb?
I don't know, I prefer to keep my curtains drawn.