Wednesday, April 27th, 2011

Jungle, King

The forest lives without a crown

but still the many groves of trees

send starving children through the ground

to genuflect on broken knees.

The children lost inside the fog

that strives to purge the world of light

but urges on the gangs of frogs

to kill the silence of the night.

Mosquitoes loiter by the pond

that spills like gutters fed by rain

to soak the jungle thorns and frond

and wash away my human stain.

The forest thrives without our law.

The human fault, to mend a flaw.



The waiting room clock serenades all

of us as we bask in the chemical reek.

The assistant walks in and the one next to me

clears his throat, straightens, and

tries to be the man on his résumé. But

she exits without a word and he returns to National Geographic.

Why give us these reminders of our primitive history?

The hunger is in me already. If you asked me to,

I would lunge from my seat and crush this man’s throat

in my teeth to prove my worth.


How else can I join this game

where we strip the weight from our soul

so that mankind can rise above

the cities and their columns of smoke?


The moon spies through curtains

and gives birth to a sick ache that

drowns the empty musings of hotel television.


The feeling leads me, barefoot, out and across

the highway until I reach grass

and my amble turns into a primal run. I stop

when Moon shouts through treetops onto me

like a crude spotlight looking into my head,

commanding me to look up. I see light,

past the gasoline sky and expired gods. The spark

of life. And I recognize that it is the same spark

burning inside of me, older than civilization.


Even as I stand, an astronaut on an

empty planet, it makes me human.