Some Call Dream
The winds shift, the clouds part,
a migratory bird, I fly over a land some
call dream, a land without walls.
The jaguar, the snake, the bee, peccary, wolf,
ocelot and pygmy owl, checkerspot
and monarch butterfly, hedgehog cactus,
toad, bighorn and jaguarondi assemble
wandering, growing where they will.
No understanding of borders here,
no knowledge as we fly from Alaska to the valley
of Mexico, Yucatan to Florida and out
to California breathing with the winds
riding the storm fronts that don’t ever
acknowledge the projected wound of wall.
Far below some boys gather
hacking apart a large turtle,
a cruel sport (and turtles all the way).
Driven by a stoked hatred
of nature vexed, poked and mutilated
a rage against the land—
it’s ultimately self-hatred
awash in America’s long desire
to replace itself with the virtual,
a new heaven where the ‘sins’ of the
puritan flesh could be exorcised,
left behind in wrathful download.
Raging against the wilderness,
wound forgotten in self-medicated
shopping nation of endless malls, all haunted,
suburban badlands where murderous police
patrol and border guards prey
on those not admitted through the gates.
The Puritans back in zombie drag wrestle,
outside the gates of ‘the community’,
the slave traders but it’s all staged, it
doesn’t matter who comes out on top.
But a storm rides in, a superstorm,
The winds shift, the clouds part
on the assembly of the living
we can assemble this land too.
Finnchuill
Writer, poet, Celtic polytheist, fili, displaced San Franciscan, liminal dweller, autonomist.