The final flower falls to the sidewalk.
It's damp and deformed, -n- sugared with sand.
It's gritty and pretty at the same time.
The ants are crawling around and across.
A faintly putrid scent must call to them.
They crave that little bit of death in food.
And tomorrow it'll be gone -- somehow -- gone.
Who knows where: swept up, carried, or wind-blown.
It will be gone, and branches will be bare.
I've never been lost in the woods,
though I've been lost so many times.
I've been lost in my neighborhood,
and I've been lost within my mind.
You say the trees look all the same.
I say that's some speciesist shit.
No. I don't know the trees by name,
but that doesn't matter a whit.
I've never been lost in the woods:
lost means wishing to be elsewhere.
Lost is all about "woulds" and "coulds."
But I'm not lost if I don't care:
don't care I don't know this exact spot,
'cause I know precisely where I'm not!
Wildlife charges through the city
like the bulls of Pamplona,
a stampede of death
from a river of life,
a river that flows turbulently,
crashing and slopping.
Nothing can falter before the stampede.
Each step must land solidly,
each step until one's last.