in the dark that approaches now after nine,
i, hearing the sounds of a temporary jungle
– sounds without a semblance of modesty,
nakedly sit beneath the canopy of my old
man’s lust. i rest beside a mighty oak
whose sap flow i can feel, then doze 
among the milkweed, gift of the monarch,
and dream that i’m tarred in its sticky
latex and feathered with its sweet blossom.
in the creek bed everything drips,
and i smell the scum of its stagnant pools.
words are pointless here but flora and fauna
snake up to my arm pits and whisper
in my ear “your time is coming, your
time is coming” 
i stand and piss on ordovician rock,
call out: rock of ages, rock & roll,
rock and a hard place, off my rocker…

at last, down on my knees
i see with glee
all this unnecessary life