Naysaying the Noise
I haven’t found one thing the stars
aren’t a cure for. Hand me my mountain
bag, full of ripe plums plummeting
from flower bud to boiling pot to jam jar.
I count the miles back out to chaparral,
heaving under the weight of my need
to see everything, and to be seen seeing it.
Would I feel less wanderlust if I could
scrub off the dead glory of a nation
obsessed with itself? Follow me
to a hot spring tucked away
behind some tall grass—
would you like that? I accelerate
out to the wilderness, forgetting
what I’m supposed to be forgetting.
To get absolutely lost in the ridiculous
brilliance of an acorn—I have everything
I could ever want. And still I wonder
how far the human race will go for a profit,
whether we will ever find another home
like this one, its miraculous blue, its hilarious
oxygen. Every cat meme is a metaphor
for the existential threat du jour. Somewhere,
a teenage girl thinks her ears are too big.
All we have is our experience. Just ask
the Joshua trees, prophets of beauty, survival.
And the hawking jays, what I wouldn’t even call
song. I want to give them to you,
their pointy heads and blue breasts flashing.
Everyone deserves to follow the sky.
What illusion am I breaking when I say no
to the noise? I won’t entertain hatred, refuse
to listen to a man on the news spitting
globs of fear in a language no oriole,
no quail, no midnight bat, no creosote bush,
no dire wolf, no waxing moon understands.