first spring, giving birth, to the eyelashes of the first girl

who looked at you. Later truffle pig lovers would uncover 

the plush velvet of your heart for something delicious.

raspberries, blackberries, blueberries of the soul 

painted onto pine trees: arboreal madness that maybe 

drives you insane as well. To be out there in nature to hear 

the sound of cars to not know which direction they come

the passing of trains, the passing of time- it’s all ambiguous

vernal pools boil over with the froth of frog eggs

coeval with the inchoate sprouts of delicate pines 

just after the conflagration. black black black. 

Also the color of the soil and the bark of pines

after the rain. life and death. pugnacity and peace

it's all a palette. a pastiche of the brain 

green and grey and orange and brown thoughts,

come out of the pool and slime frogs and berries 

in the bog. Keep treading onwards. The soft silence 

Of cars behind, the vultures waiting in the branches, 

Waiting for me. 

when you were younger, when you were walking through 

the woods of your own soul, lackadaisily catching frogs 

and releasing them into small creeks, and wondering

What then? But you never cried at the hen in the mouth 

Of the fox. Never cried at the detritus on the forest 

Floor. Never pitied the runt of the litter. Instead you took

Those alpine berries, laced leaves, the sand off the bottom 

Of your muddy shoe. Mushed into a poultice, held and wept into. 

You spit into the earth and become a part of the world. Let the 

Dust collect on the top of green, blue bottles lining the windowsill, 

Gazing at the kaleidoscope of teal, virulent, translucence on the 

Kitchen floor, and wondering, how many shells are there 

At the bottom of the ocean? And you know that there are no scraps:

Every bit of flotsam and jetsam, was made. Every finch was born

In a moment. You can pick your clovers. you can pick the daisies. you can 

pick the petals off of them. but it never would tell you: will they love 

Us, will they not: will we suffer will we not; will we love 

will we not.

isn’t the most beautiful thing in the world 

the wound of a redwing blackbird?"

702: Pine Bush UFO

One special place close to home, Pine Bush has been titled one of the largest hotspots in America for the outrageous outpouring of sightings and supposed close encounters of the second/third kind. 

They host a festival in the town every year to commemorate its otherworldly nature, so if you’re in town tomorrow afternoon feel free to drop on by, I’ll be there myself watching men and women dress as green martians in parades.