Joseph’s Hill
by Obi Martin
Up! the fire, light the day
wake the decadence of early morning.
Crouching springs the caveman
on the wreck of plastic flowerpots
and soil, burying his fingers
with the bending down of brambles in the earth.
Pulled as necessarily from
knowledge, duty, to action.
As leaves themselves are pulled
in the hedonism of evaporation.
He paws his fingers in the earth.
like the criminal centipede
who preaches treason
through the contentment
of being happy without equipment.
Find your transportation
in the rough mysticism
of a well-used broom or pitchfork.
embrace the dryness and eat the parching
sweet of a dream delocated into action.
build your bedroom on the thrown out slabs of concrete
as all civilizations have,
upon the refuse heap of previous generation.
Set up there Emerson
upon a muffin.
Project Mozart loudly,
preach him from the culverts.
baptize the ashes with oil and cardboard.
Free the groundhog of the stones
he cast out of his home,
and find a use for them in yours.
Fill up the cracks in the earth with more earth,
and harvest there nothing
but moments
covering your hand like the exuberance
of raspberries.
Obi Martin says that the times he feels most alive come often when reading or writing.
Photography by Kenneth Godoy