Meeting the Mad Habitatter

Hunter’s Creek

The mad habitatter wanders

While laughing with the bees

Or is it with forest

Lost not in his thoughts

But in the trees

But can he be lost

In a place not found

On the maps and the apps

Of the world around?

A hidden place

Filled with magic and wonder

Just a step outside

Of your mind down yonder

De-cultured

And a-cultured

Never alone by himself

As he has the woods

His compatriots

Are no company

In their pressed suits

And white hoods

He searches for habitat

Most fertile

For better thoughts

And turtler turtles

Picture a fool

With a dog at his back

A smile on his face

As the dog bites his ball sack

This image

Most common

On cards used for fortune

Sanitized by the blandest

Victorians

A great allegory

For all that lies ahead

And below and above

In two sacks

One bitten between his knees

And one carried above his head

“What’s salvageable?”

He asks of the words

Thrown together under threat of unspiration

“Surely the sound of the rushing creek

And the golden sunlight

Birthed beauty in your desperate finger taps?”

“No,”

I reply.

“I compared you to the Fool:

With a smile on your face,

A dog bites your nut sack.”

“That would make me smile,”

He says

In fact

With a smile.

“But there has to be something

In those words

That we can turn

Into habitat.”

I glance at the clock

Monitoring my time

To makes sure I’m not late

Can’t be late

It’s much too late

For my meeting with kings of swords

On my PlayStation 4

“Let’s see,”

I say,

“I’ll try something new

To see what takes root.”

What can be found here

In this hidden place

Filled with magic and wonder

Just a step outside

Of my mind

And down yonder?

Bees and trees

The turtlest of turtles

And maybe some habitat

The kind most fertile

A chipmunk yells at me

After I tell a dog

That she’s such a good sitter

Do you disagree, chipmunk?

I ask in my my mind

And then I realize

That this poem sucks

Because I’ve been lost in it

This entire time.

How to put into letters

The sound of a tiny waterfall

And a babbling brook

A crushing crest of a creek?

Pbpbppbpbppbp

Doesn’t quite capture

The majesty

Of it all.

He stares at me

Grinning.

“Find my voice,”

He says

A few steps

And some dropped sunglasses

Later.

Even more steps

And thankfully no dropped sunglasses

Later,

I correct him:

“Our voice.”

I realize

That we were all mad habitatters before

Before agriculture

We existed outside of

And before

The western understanding of mind

Everywhere we went we were

In right relationship with habitat

And always helped it thrive

We were and still are

Swirling waters

And dry creek beds

Stones and roses

And goldenrod

And bergamot.

Perhaps most importantly

The songs

Of a wood thrush

Guiding us on our way home

Despite the flies

Trying to bite

Our fucking faces.

He speaks to me

In 26-year old Madonna songs

Filled with sanctuaries

And bedtime stories.

Waiting for the rose hips

To ripen

To burst forth with flavor

So strong

Like 1980s bubble gum

But less fleeting

The teensiest bug

Digs its teeth into my knuckle

To taste me

We’re all food

And I’m on repeat

Or maybe it’s a lesson

I need to learn

Over and over