Run rabbits run
Eaten by the wolf, for he is hungry...
The dill pickle criminal sick and subliminal
Tuned to remedial, punked on residuals
The hot dog of omnipresent despair
pays her bills, takes her pills, roars like a lion
sign on the dotted line, and run up the hill
the garden is full of perennials
the menial laborers weeding on their knees
picking up the tiny, invisible, scattered seeds
The soul of the soil: stones, minerals and trees
These days, we are so busy as society...
redefining what it means
to be a thief.
We love to point our fingers
like the branches of a snarled tree
growling like the wolf
justified to the teeth
but have yet to master the random art
of the wildflower
blowing in the wind
silently
colorfully
amongst the weeds.
Read this poem up from the bottom.