nature is god's tongue. i read that once in the autobiographical papers of martin luther king jr. so this morning i went hiking.
fuck nature. i said as i started walking. and smiled to myself. i do that. we do that. smile to ourselves. bounce a tennis ball and grip it. grip it for my grip strength. nothing crumbling on the trails quite like racist cops, broken systems, internet wormholes.
blood in a car seat. blood outside a liquor store. it's ok mommy. don't cry.
just soil and earth and early morning summer coastal fog.
but back to tongues. back to hearts beating in wombs. my old friend luke, i saw again for lunch on his way to go make documentaries in broken parts of his native brazil. i asked him what the sex of his baby was going to be. he said it has a scrotum and balls.
but i'm a boy.
no ur not
oh. i guess i'm not anymore. but but but
we had an attic. it had one of those fold down ladders. her and i lived beneath it together. i lugged a flatscreen tv and cable up there and books. hers and mine. it's the saddest part to see go, when the two of you go. the way both of your books split apart again.
i said love is a can of shit.
and i didn't believe it for two seconds
natural music
by robinson jeffers (again)
The old voice of the ocean, the bird-chatter of little rivers,
(Winter has given them gold for silver
To stain their water and bladed green for brown to line their banks)
From different throats intone one language.
So I believe if we were strong enough to listen without
Divisions of desire and terror
To the storm of the sick nations, the rage of the hunger smitten cities,
Those voices also would be found
Clean as a child's; or like some girl's breathing who dances alone
By the ocean-shore, dreaming of lovers.
