O Whitman , the visions I see! Green seeds in soil,
decayed roses in the sun &
cocoons on trees, yellow butterflies.
Meditations in everything.
Souls, energy everywhere!
We live in moments you & I;
in a web of life we can leave ourselves behind.
How can I sing of the Earth & of love of life?
How can we sing unless we know death?
Know the moment of renal failure,
piss & bile spilling from hanging mouths &
bodies that dangle.
Our shaking pets die in our arms.
Across the land what do we see but life & death?
We live in weeping.
Who are we?
Be with me Whitman & Roethke,
guide me in this moment.
We are alive in our despair.


Oregon White Sturgeon burnt black by the sun
fish the size of a Siberean Husky
swim in a hatchery pond
with coins and cigarette butts.
A crewcut man casts stones
bragging about fish he has killed.
Two hawks circle the sky, sweeping downward
for a glimpse of prey,
families with cameras capture the image of a mountain.
They do not notice the birds.
At the Grand Canyon coke bottles clutter the rim and
pennies tumble over the edge thrown by tourists.
Children attempt to pet and feed a squirrel.

O Whitman, in Yellowstone are fools
who think they are in Disney World,
approaching buffalo with camera in hand.
On the road "Going To The Sun" the asses of two white rams
bounce away from vans and cars and campers,
and charcoal fumes fill the air from exhaust pipes.
Beaches of California display dead fish & oil,
& jellyfish graveyards liter the sand.

In cities pigeons fatten on crumbs,
& crows feed off the dead.
On shores seagulls gather junk,
& crab shells pile on the stony ground.
In Arizona desert scorpions sting & snakes shed skin,
& a black bear sneaks feasts from a garbage can.
Michigan's former town of Hogs Hollow has a slaughterhouse.
Stench of hogs in trucks across America &
cries in the killing &
pork chop barbeques corrupt the air.

O Whitman, where is your vision?
This is the meditation of America,
land of waste, dying, & decay before its time.
President Bush wants to dig up the last of the oil in
the National Parks & the Alaska wilderness.
So some say let's dig it all up
Let's sing songs of sorrow, songs of death.
Let's kill everything so we can all die young.

Are we all an apparition?
There must be love of all things to survive and thrive,
there must be an end still--an end--yet
there could be songs of joy for the next seven generations.
Where is the fresh water for the grabdchildren?
There will be wars for water & many dead.
A landscape full of bones.


I think of America as a place of destruction & lessons.
I do not see condors often anymore.
Can we sing of life from learning from the dead?
Can we sing of love giving birth
to love in the care of all things?