We caught three in a Havahart cage, but the one still alive
Submerged the other two. Ranch Hand Roger will drown him too.
I'm sure that's more humane but I can't imagine how.
A rainbow forms as I throw one in a bucket to the gulley.
So the generational trauma release Christmas continues,
Now with Mad Men as Lilith meting divine feminine revenge,
Like the witches in Salem enact how it feels to be condemned.
Still, the ground is funereal soggy even by the standards of the age
That cries a loch raven of tears for the rudely dispossessed.
But it's nothing a little Wonder Dust and Cowboy Magic won't fix,
Shavings of tenderness put down for the year of the sensitive horse.
But it's the gentle part of the season of the snake, the final unraveling
Of the oldest papery responses, delicately off the raw new skin
Ready to be right, wrong and inundated again. You have to
Turn it around to turn it over to turn it on.
Perhaps the horses know this, or perhaps rain makes them present
In their discomfort a little more. The oak trees throb like sponges
For whatever identity they can absorb as voices move through them
Like the wind, as if there are no roads, no tolls, no restrictions
On how much of the mirror mask scales can be jettisoned
And left to tremble among the goldenrod, because what was once real
Is now gone, like music after its moment, though echoes persist
In minds that can't unlatch themselves from the past of what is now
With the work to be invisible barely begun. The snake teaches
How all subtle forms turn back into energy, the wallpaper comes alive.
There's an eye at the end of the tunnel, the real is what looks at you,
Wondering what you will do, its Gudrun in distress, communing
With the moon, which keeps us separate, co-mooning, from each other
And thus the heavens. Identity here is but a framework to be, albeit
Temporarily, while nature reveals herself the same as what you finally
Feel you are, open to the nothingness where the real appears
As continuous presence, still anchored there after the mudslide,
Outlasting all attempts to challenge what it is by what it is not.
The bird bard Bran descends to the underground, for to know death is
To birth the born. And so from the tree the girl was torn.
I was whipped so much for disobeying in one lifetime, this one's lesser
Punishment seems like a pleasure, a virtue, a penance.
The karmic whip travels across dimensions
And no doctor here can treat the timeline bleed through.
