When a granny pine finds it’s time to die,
meeting the rain-hammered ground in a final
riot of needle and scream, each mycelium
praises the killing wind, each clenched
green knot enters the rooting fray,
each chitinous bundle clacks its thanks
to whatever segmented god it knows
for the gift of rot, the gift of a home.

And when the gold of dehydrated piss
blasts the bleached ceramic, it’s only
the first splash of an unedited epic
through the pipes of industrial revolt,
the gardens of toothy marketing,
the decaying arcades of municipal hope,
and despite every loss every new drop
finds a way to a tap, a glass, a throat.

And when the People’s Secretary takes her seat
only to be thrown by her own red laws,
and when the bitten moon gives up the lift
to the sun on the merciless daily, and when
a bitrotting meme skips phone to phone
in search of its landfilled screen of birth,
the tide once more takes up the weight
of its dear and doubled daily drag.

In such a turbiney world, what greater
honour can be granted to a spindrunk soul
than to steward a bundle of sorry words
from hand to hand, a set-aside thought
to the pattern it matches, a cracked spine
to a horny caress of a morning read?
Blessings to the windblown stinkside cycle!
Blessings to all friends who spin the wheel!