coyote leaves no track on tile

Coyote, Scott Speck, Baltimore, Maryland, USA check his work out at

coyote leaves no track on tile
no spoor on steel
no scent in air so full of men
so full of women
so human-choked it cannot flow
without bruising up against his fur
angry assed and neck ruffed
at this ugly re-purposed mountain
this pinguid re-directed river
this paved and painted prairie
where there is only green enough for insects
and the poison it takes to kill them—
he runs on, coyote, through the blasted
steam of city streets
through the endless chunks of suburban swamp
strip by strip pool by pool link by link
of chain link
of chain that leads to chain that leads to chain
because the white-eyes thought so much
of slavery, and miss it so
they have enslaved themselves
to preserve the special thrill that comes
from only listening to the big lie
from only doing what you’re told—
and so coyote strides without fear
through these pallid, whinging spirits
no time for them, a human being has died
and coyote goes to him now in a gesture
of professional courtesy, one trickster to another
to lead him into the Great Mystery
where the only thing between a human being
and the stars
is a wisp of sacred smoke teased to curl in chanted song
and the eternal circuit of the eagle
in the sky

—Don Whittington


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