if trees had lips

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