in a gob of mob, they slobber
around the once-green now
full of vinegar and piss
thin plastic thoughts of tupperware
holding them together as they marvel
at themselves. i am not you
i yell into the ravenless tree
that surrounds this point.
they pull back another, and
another and laugh at nothing
except me. in a pasture
gone two hundred years
a thousand cows passed oh yes
this ignorance is the common
place that warbles about on calm
water like a fat and happy swan
certain only that he will neither blow
the trumpet, nor lay breathless
on some rich man’s feast. i yell
into the squirrel-less tree that holds
the pointlessness of a man
full or empty, pissful or pissless or
or or … pissed off.