I Feed Bears
Black bears climb trees, scare people, and study me.
They know all about the old honey holes, broken
black boysenberry thickets, the licking of sticky paws,
thorn pricks, the differences between blood and juice.
I’d rather a bear ate me than judged me.
But, I don’t really look like berries. Blueberries
don’t make you blue unless you are already.
Smash them into your skin and, if you’re European,
you’ll turn a pale purple. Raspberries make me ruddy.
Every huckleberry goes to pressure cookers and canning.
No matter how I color myself, bears remember
who I am. When I attempt to hand feed them,
bacon or bread or salmon, they hide behind skinny
blackberry bushes, vanish into starvation’s
open-mouthed shadows, and flinch forever away
from me like I’m the predator with nothing to eat.
[TRIGGER WARNING FOR POEM 0 MILES AHEAD]
City Trip
“Who needs hallucinogens
when you have all these cities?”
masked raccoons asked before
diving into a downtown dumpster
to suck on sweet, spilled anti-freeze
and lick away empty pizza box grease.
I didn't remember dosing
or being so hungry
that I'd snack on blotter paper
or take an unnecessary risk
with unknown fungus
grown in some unnatural shit.
I found myself flinching
from flashing neon signs
after months spent basking
in soothing sunshine and soft starlight.
I was, as they say, having a bad trip, man.
A bald eagle on the horizon
began flying much too straight.
Her wings turned rigid. She banked.
And became a booming jet plane.
Thunder tried to muffle
the combustible screams
ancient bones unleash
when engineers and ignition
turn fossils into fuel
to twist propellers faster
and make the trip so much quicker
When the thunder failed,
I knew it never existed.
I just needed something
to roar back at the engines.
Fantasy, of course,
can almost always be
projected much farther
than stark reality.
Almost always, thankfully.
Because these urban psychedelics,
created by an insane chemist,
were far too harsh for me.
And, when I tried to hide
I found a beautiful bullsnake
coiled in the shade who
turned out to be an inviting rope.
Fortunately, it wasn't long enough
to hang myself with
and end this never-ending,
nightmarish trip.
ABOUT:
Will Falk is a biophilic poet, activist, and attorney. The natural world speaks and poetry is how Will listens. His poems have appeared through Blood Tree Literature, Cathexis Northwest Press, Chapter House Journal, Roi Fainéant, and Wayfarer Magazine, among others. His first full-length collection of poetry When I Set the Sweetgrass Down was published by Wayfarer Books in 2023. You can follow his work at willfalk.org. Follow on Instagram and Facebook @will_falk35.
EDITOR'S SONG PAIRING: TheSheepdogs — Take A Trip
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