The Ivy

The ivy comes, and chokes to death
A forest in its glory —
Shall we pass by and barely see,
And yawn, “the same old story”?

We hardly feel the difference
As boundaries are ceded —
The slow and the inexorable:
They’re almost undefeated

And then, it’s happening to us,
We find ourselves surrounded —
Why didn’t we do anything
When others were confounded?

The ivy comes, and devastates,
And does it without fuss —
And we had better kill it now,
Ere it takes care

Of us

painted chairs

we spent our days in painted chairs
beneath the drunk and dusty sun,
and waited for the n.f.l.
to tell us who had won —

the blue, with johnnie walker red,
the pink, slow with a stillhouse black,
were ready for the games to start,
to see who got the sack —

the summer turned to early fall,
we left our painted chairs behind,
while those who aired their grievances
were idolized and fined —

though seasons change, the conscience can’t:
we only reap the things we plant,
and each must move as best he dares
or else we’re all just painted
chairs

dispossessing

the fields of dispossessing
have passed to other hands,
that is, i think,
tradition in these lands

and all lands, actually

the summer rains are sweltering
and we've been helter-skeltering
and sheltering
and harboring our fears,
but those we packed up with

the little bit of pride that we had left.

there is no steinbeck here,
no chronicle of what we had and lost,
that's somehow lyrical

it's just a bunch of mud
and

generations

the Validators

They ran our love through all their screens,
Then told us we were not a match;
Their apparatus brought to bear
On anyone their snares could catch
 
These butterfly collectors who
Place everyone behind the glass,
In categories, rimmed with signs,
A handful from a teeming mass
 
Identities defined by them
Are not the main thing, no. Instead,
It is the locks, the box, the cage,
And making sure their subjects all

Stay dead