in Lyons, the "forest preserve"
littered with dead deer, illegal sport
,littered with litter;
all of it banal: thousands of
plastic straws, many colors, cigarette ends(the
american luxuries: riding in cars, smoking,
drinking x-tra large beverages:
simultaneously, an increase in pleasures)
shards of iridescence: broken cds.
shards of transience, moving through
landscapes at high speeds,
the landscape doesn't mind.
here it waits for more reminders of
you, which it will break down
to styrofoam confetti, longer lasting than
that moment,( quick flash of your hand in the night, the air
on your palm; letting go. )
and longer than
the foundation of Chicago
most of it now gone,
the remainder abandoned across
from a British Petroleum power plant(bp, yellow green),
which is busy, industrious
as this place is dead, forgotten.
6 cars in 2 parking lots,
assorted subjects sitting inside,
waiting, fucking, drugging.
winter is the best time for forests
which a mile away from the highway
it begins to seem.
the wind passes easily through the trees,
the movements of animals
amplified when lushness is
you can see everything coming,
in a winter forest.
there is the clarity of nakedness.
the slowing down of the earth's
things falling apart slowly in the cold.
walk slower, conserve your strength,
pull your breath around your head.
when you reach the railroad tracks,
keep moving over the rusty ties, the
white stones caked with alloy
to take one in your hand