The light becoming softer
Means our sun is setting
It looks like death on the trees,
But I like death. Death is peace.
It’s cool all around. But the kind of
Cool where you don’t need a sweater and
Breathing it in is like getting jacked on drugs.
It smells like pure moisture, like tree breath,
Like cars don’t exist. All those idiots
Driving around in cars. Burning dead dinosaurs.
They’re just a bunch of overgrown rats.
That’s all anybody is. And rats are just overgrown
Bacteria. That’s all anyone ever is. Rodents that crawled
Out the water, while the sun was setting probably.
That’s the best time for anything.
Christian Bazinet is the dirty poet who lives in Whittier. He’s a writer, a breather, a father, and he intends to be heard. He’s shouting his words through his fingers and so through his pen because he’d be selfish not to. Twenty years old and glad to be your neighbour.