Now I'm mad about the bullshit

The whole country smells like it,
different kinds of crap.

Stuck in the teeth
of the ranger at Yellowstone,
smiling at my Jersey plates,
from under his Smoky Bear hat.

Under the fingernails
of midwestern truckers,
speeding up to keep me from passing,
coordinating moving roadblocks with their fat CB's,
smiling at my Jersey plates,
with half & half eyes,
through bearded veils.

Sprinkled like manna over the Badlands
and the alkaline flats.

Like grit in their hair,
and their underwear,
and the shitstank of anyone
saying, This land is mine.

From the corporations,
from the suburbanites,
from the farmers,
from the settlers,
from the natives,
from the pioneers,
from the trappers,
from the nations,
from the cowboys,
from the cavalry,
from the yuppies,
from the hippies,
from the gaurdsmen,
from the tribes,
from the clans,
from the families,
from the men,
from the women,
from the children,
from the elk,
from the bison,
from the foxes,
from the bears,
from the maples,
from the conifers,
from the rivers,
from the glaciers,
from the sand,
from the rock,
from the dust,
from the star dust.
This is not land.
This is not place.

And your jobs
should go to Mexico,
should go to India. That movie
should be shot in Canada.
There is no
should.
These things
will.

These men are not evil.
These men are not good.
Men are.
Men do.
This happened to you;
you happened to it.
She didn't leave you;
you didn't fail.
The way is never blocked;
life finds itself falling everywhere.
Stamp out melancholy, its quiet rage,
unless it's changing,
unless it's growth.

Fly from evolution.
Do not impede the naked children of these lands,
of these cities and farms,
replacing the transmissions
of their tractors or sedans.

Wrap evolution around you
like 30 yards of silk.
Let evolution tickle
every corner of your flesh.
Be growth.
Say to those you love, "Grow!"
Grow as humans, yes,
but grow into humanity itself.
For there will be others down the line,
and we will be the jilted peoples of old,
the taken-advantage-of women,
the starving prospectors of the Donner Pass,
even as we cruise at 80,
and brag about credit card debt.

Even as now we are whistling
at our own reflections
wherever we can find them:
in the stars,
on TV screens,
in her eyes,
in a roll of the dice,
in a bottle,
in a sweet little thang.
Grow into these,
and out of them.
Grow with them,
but not away from yourself.
Grow upward,
but do not sprawl.

The desert weeds are desperate for water.
We are not to spread so thin.

The river can afford to trickle and freeze.
All its efforts will be returned.

We are not weed.
We are not water.
Spew forth your liquid self at intervals,
in measured squirts.
Retain the rest.
Rest, rebuild, replenish.
Engage the process.
Leave all the shit.
Burn it for fuel.
Feed it to the corn.
Then eat the corn.
But don't eat the shit.
Don't put it on someone else's plate
and call it supper,
or how it is.
Because the how of it,
the way,
the it itself,
ain't yours,
or mine,
or anyone's come before,
or anyone's coming.

Grab the earth with your hands.
Do what you will with this.
Teach growth,
and don't call it nothing.