Tuesday, June 27, 2017


...an old poem of mine that I shared last month at the annual Western Women's Tracking Conference (in Cuyama Valley this year, the high desert in backcountry of Quail Springs Permaculture Farm) and it had them laughing, so I'm sharing it here now.


First I am going to pretend
they're not there on the floor -
maybe two or three to clean
crusted oatmeal off the stove,
but I don't want to think what
dozens do in the food pantry
at night. What's with that funky
taste in the ground corn?!

I declare war on the fuckers.
I'll kill each one with my bare
hands, or do it real nasty and
bomb the place to hell. Or run
and hide. Or refuse to touch
anything near them. Tomorrow
I'll make plans to sterilize and
disinfect under the fridge...

I'll try a metaphysical approach
and live in harmony with all
creatures since aren't they cute
with their little grasshopper
heads? Or wonder if those tales
are true about that magic
where their carcasses alert
others? Fuck. The story may be

science from Africa discovered
millennials ago and it's true
the Mayans have not dealt
with such obscenities before,
before, fuckers: it's the United
States government. See I live
on the wrong side of town and
what would my family think?

I saw photos of slave quarters
in New Orleans, the ones with
the roaches in their long haul
up the wall with the dead
rodent. Fuckers. They make
me think of nuclear disaster.
Fuckers. I live for the time
they turn on their masters.

-d. martin

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