present precincts

sit back, eyes latched, and listen. ask of yourself, what do you hear is yet natural and why does it feel. how different is the sound of the humming passing cars versus the crashing waves oceanic and where lies a veiled separation amongst the two. cars human and maybe more-so, the sound is similar to thunder, the pushing of air molecular. sure some rubbered tires grip of friction. sound of the heat-energy? at the foot of my bed, a map of my dreams, sharpied soft contours of slow-bent freeways, zigging and zagging, to borrow of the Gonzales. even here, trees natural still planted by us dictate the actions realized by invisible wind and how she howls, past screens made by many, over the shoulders of my own, crossing ears, crossing hairs. a kid screams as jets leave. daycare around the corner like emeric pratts oakland, some second story looking over recess five days a week. I smiled at it then, I smile at it now. no use for natural because what is? wheres the limits and who's left to draw it? the line in the sand sparks right angles, farming fueled war with the invention of fences. to reevaluate that map, marked with printed inky here and there lines. where your marks mark the intersection of four plains, X, Y, Z, and illegal, their private property. "I was born a little to late to see the dream they called America." Jeff Ott.