93│ colonial parkway triangular

Send me to the pits, La Brea, and did I say wrangling, uneasily?
Sink me, motherfucker, because time is short.
Tomorrow is who I’d rather be. Forget me not
you know how, and who I am I gather
like saber-toothed storm clouds.
Go home. It can be sunny in time.

Alas, I know how to cast spells with my eyes closed—animals.
And just like that a dead deer on the suburban sidewalk this morning.
Only when you disappear down into the hollows
will the deer be gone…

Just a week ago I watched Charlotte burn
the dug-out insides of a canoe. Thanks for the recommendation.
The finishing touches were smoldering but wickedly hot,
and no one, I swore, could see the smoke
rising over the palisade
except for us.

[A large canoe could glide quietly along with twenty men.]

Moments later, while inside the hut,
we took the hearth broom from the wattle- and daub-walled holder
and swept away the leaves and soot
and then imagined the invasion.
We scrambled to latch shut
all the doors and all the windows. Sadly,
there were not too many.

Tourist season was his favorite.
Each time the distant muskets or cannons erratically rang out,
the lollipop man in the gift shop would proudly say:
“Oops, ladies and gentlemen,
there goes another one.”
And would rear back and bellow…