We real ballers.

We real ballers. We
Get dollars. We
Bend knees. We
Pound trees. We
Cache break. We
Forests make. We
Trucks ruin. We
Sleep soon.


They tell me
the truck noise is okay,
it doesn’t sound okay, but I nod

They tell me
my land isn’t too bad,
it feels very bad, but I nod
They tell me
the taste of bleach in my water will go away
it doesn’t go away, but I nod
They tell me,
there are no more trees left today,
I see others with trees, but I nod
They tell me
there are no block treats left this morning,
I see Joe with three…
And the checker with four…
And Dana with two…
I will set fire to everyone and everything in this camp.


I survey my land,
as a farmer his fields,
the dirt my canvas.
There is a perfection,
in the apparent randomness,
revealed only by my plot cord.
I see the checker’s silhouette,
in the warm light of afternoon,
walking slow circles, stooping low.

She approaches slowly and I smile,
indulging her with kindness,
but asserting the space between artist and critic.
She has never seen spacing so exact,
every plot a masterfully crafted piece,
in a jigsaw puzzle of perfection.
Every tree at perfect attention,
as direct a line between earth and heaven,
as any man can make.
I nod without expression,
for it is for me to do,
and others to praise.
I offer some friendly chatter,
before excusing myself,
but she says she must mention,

“You J-rooted all four thousand trees.”