301 Moved Permanently

301 Moved Permanently



We wake

in a vagrant campground,

Similkameen to my left,

water shredded in long quick strips, and behind,

scorched into the desert hills, the massive bald K.


Coco has been awake for hours, performing

his morning stretches and witchy rituals to the

hidden stars; Mercury in retrograde.

In tree pose, he pisses

into the rock-strewn waters, watching

his urine steam and cool and join

with something bigger, become anchored

to the river with the last few shakes.


The wind has torn

my pegs loose from their home,

and by the marsh, amidst

stones and sagebrush and dog shit,

crust punks rise from their hobbled,

blue plastic shanties, crack the first cans of beer,

poke at the firepit for cigarette butts,

pull on their patchy vests that read:

Disrupt. Earth Crisis.

Some, like us, are here to work the orchards —

most are here for the party.


Packed up, we make our way past

young Kale’s family trailer; past

stick-and-poked New York City Veronica’s moon tent; past

piles of Moosehead, Lucky, and Pabst; past

the curled, smashed and rusted

baby blue Volkswagen —

dead white flowers frothing

from the heap like spit.


Illustration by Lauren Simkin Berke.

Illustration by Lauren Simkin Berke.


from subTerrain #70

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