Cottage

There’s a creepy photograph

of Michigan

on a fireplace’s mantle.

On a wall there is photograph

of cancer

riding a motorcycle in Sturgis.

The bathroom has a painting

of Beaver Cleaver,

but someone drew a Hitler

moustache on it.

Wolverines rest on railings

of porches

that wrap around whole lakes.

White tail deer hunt the offspring

of plants

while we secretly hunt them.

Tuesday, October 23, 2012 (While listening to Captain Beerheart)

 I’m starving the carbon that flows within.

Mines are removing mountain tops and

the poor vote against their best interests.

Who’s watching who? Who cares?

Naked children run across a still lake,

laughing and crying, floating forever.

When the many false faces of existence

are peeping-toms, mirrors are dust.

Who has the original Trout Mask?

It seems all we have is replicas.

Silver Bullets for Werecowards

Tomorrow, in Wyoming, people

are allowed to hunt wolves for fun.

They’re not going to eat them.

They’re just going to kill them.

Why? Because they’re fucking pussies.

In certain parts of India,

tiger poachers are shot on sight.

The Wolf Within

I was telling this chic

(that looked like

Mike Ness, but

without tattoos)

about Wyoming

making it legal

to hunt wolves,

while we smoked

outside of a bar.

Behind us, a barber pole’s

motor ran, but

nothing turned.

It was more

candy cane than

spiraling down.

She asked if I ever

saw one die and

I replied that I had,

but I also saw it live.

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On Friday, Oct. 5th, the State of Wyoming opened up hunting on Wolves. I wrote these two poems Thursday, Oct. 4th.