if trees had lips
do you need a fly's eye to see it
or a squirrel's ears to hear it?
what the sandstone has to say
about the way that water cuts
through notions of eternity.
the trees know this better than we do.
even the ones beside the road
we used to ride on big red fat-tired bikes.
some trees had rusted strands
of barbed wire embedded
in the trunks where the bark
grew over it and left a scar
like tight pressed lips
that refuse to speak
about the rod and gun club
that posted all the signs
that warned of fines and prosecution
for trespassers and violators
of property. they had exclusive rights
to hunt for meat and trophies.
antlers nailed to the trees
around their rustic camp
a string of bare sixty watt bulbs
drooping from limb to limb
a pool of light under the bay laurels
that spice the whiskey, beer
and t-bone scented air.
they left behind for us to find
some mildewed porno magazines,
with leprous swollen pages
that we carefully pried apart
to gawk and gaze at mottled images
of women doing things
that enflame the minds of men.
why then did they tack the centerfolds
on the trunks of those old trees
and pepper them with twenty-twos
aiming for the tits and crotch?
the parts that we most wished to see,
the curves and crannies of female anatomy?
the bulltail ranch hunting camp
was stripped from it's dim hollow
when george lucas bought the property
and changed the name to skywalker.
if the oaks and bays could speak,
part the lips of those old scars
and move their heartwood tongues
they might laugh about the hunters
and spit out the bullets that pierced
their knobby skins. i hope those men
are dead, and with any luck
their rotted cocks and livers
are fertilizing the roots
of buckeyes, bays, and poison oak
