I walked miles with myself
and a rifle shooting squirrels,
skinning rattlesnakes and listening
to sprawling oak trees speak,
often as a boy. Hawks and buzzards
eyed me suspiciously, gave me
space and a name that cut both ways
and waited while I made up my mind.
In those days, propaganda
was a dirty word—nowadays
it’s all we ever know.
With good advertising
employing every sense of being
someone, we sell planned obsolescence
like hotcakes—each bite
paid for with a little bit of soul.
for David Wilke
drycrikjournal 