Mother Earth taught you from a young

age to always take inventory of the sharps

and hazards when getting your bearings

in these harsh, pulsating environs.


(cactus, jellyfish, sporulating mold)


You think logically and suggest that your

nerves that fire like a million stingers poking

holes in your senses are just her love,

her way of giving you that fighting chance

you never earned, her selection is natural,

and she has chosen you!


(rabid bats, hornets with their basketball sized nests, jaws that can crush your skull “like a soda can”, say the more marketing-savvy textbooks)


Or is just that she likes to reduce you into

one more squirming critter on her graying face,

to meticulously build a cardboard village that

she, the daikaiju, might stomp through for hours

this sunny afternoon, roaring and giggling at your

giddy white rabbit terror?


(these hooks and whips that shimmer underneath the river’s surface calm)