Ｃｏｙｏｔｅ
Ｍ-Ξ-Ｍ-Ξ

POETRY
02-03-02022

C͎o͎y͎o͎t͎e͎, when did my life get so banal?

C͎o͎y͎o͎t͎e͎, I don’t know how to be without C͎o͎y͎o͎t͎e͎ tricks.

How do I know anything to be ✿RIGHT✿ when anytime I do,

the world tells me,

“You’re W̶R̶O̶N̶G̶”?

C͎o͎y͎o͎t͎e͎, not the world, not that easy bypass.

It’s on me.

I expect W̶R̶O̶N̶G̶ to be the end of every feeling of ✿RIGHT✿

C͎o͎y͎o͎t͎e͎, my ✿RIGHT✿ echoes off the walls of me.

It rebounds as the W̶R̶O̶N̶G̶ I expect.

“Selective hearing,” Grandma called it.

C͎o͎y͎o͎t͎e͎͎͎, I W̶R̶O̶N̶G̶ my ✿RIGHT✿ on reflex.

C͎o͎y͎o͎t͎e͎, I’m done with ✿RIGHT✿.

I’m done with W̶R̶O̶N̶G̶ .

I want to be like C͎o͎y͎o͎t͎e͎, C͎o͎y͎o͎t͎e͎.

I want trickster vibes.

I want to slide into where I am not welcome,

shrouded in sly glamour.

The farmer’s coop, the artist’s afterparty,

the (insert personal longing) scene.

C͎o͎y͎o͎t͎e͎, I’m at the market,

the good one,

the one that allows no seed oils or factory fowl.

Lend me some of that trickster spirit!

Because I’ve got a rotisserie chicken under each arm.

I am running for the door.

C͎o͎y͎o͎t͎e͎ never pays.

Right C͎o͎y͎o͎t͎e͎?

They are sloshing warm oil & collagen in their plastic domes.

No one is chasing, but I run like they are.

I’m hungry for risk, not rotisserie.

I pretend my absent chasers are armed,

that they are at war with C͎o͎y͎o͎t͎e͎ and meme,

That I am THE 𝕠𝕦𝕥𝕝𝕒𝕨 h̶͇̠̺͚̦̹̪̪͐͗ͅa̴̞͈͍͂̀͒̎͑͒ͅͅc̴̜̀k̶͓͉̠̞̫͍̣̪̜̀̋̔̑ͅḗ̴͎̲͔̊̀̀̓̕r̸̲̮̳͎̱̤̥͑͑͛̽̽͛̍̚ 𝖕𝖎𝖗𝖆𝖙𝖊

C͎o͎y͎o͎t͎e͎, you live & die lawless, and useless.

You are a loose-end. Placeless and everywhere.

Maybe not useless; I’ve been told that without you, C͎o͎y͎o͎t͎e͎,

this city would be swarmed with rats?

Is that your vital trick, you trickster,

you’ve found the taste for rats?

A rotisserie chicken has 1255 calories,

& I’ve one for you & me.

I’ll meet you at the cities edge, C͎o͎y͎o͎t͎e͎.

By the aqueduct with my two chickens.

We can watch the leaves and plastic bottles float by.

I’ll eat one and you’ll eat one.

It will be our only meal today.

Based on our metabolism,

๏ ๏ ๏ ๏ ๏ I’ll lose weight,

๏ ๏ ๏ ๏ ๏ and you’ll gain,

๏ ๏ ๏ ๏ ๏ and that is fine.

Grandma never let us give rotisserie to our domestically-dominated dog.

“They’ll choke on bones,” she said.

C͎o͎y͎o͎t͎e͎, you crunch wings & skull with vigor & gusto.

Is it because you are ♥ 𝓌𝒾𝓁𝒹 & 𝒻𝓇𝑒𝑒 ♥ ?

Is it your jaw's tensile strength?

My jaw feels weak, C͎o͎y͎o͎t͎e͎ trickster.

Have my bones.

C͎o͎y͎o͎t͎e͎, our meal is done, where do I go now?

Back to my domicile's four walls,

my screen’s four edges?



I saw a meme on that screen:

Two black boars fucking on a mountain of garbage

Plastic, scrap, & tires

Smoke stacks pluming all ░noxy░ noxious░ in the distance.

Over this scene was laid a digital layer of sacred geometry

by some cynic.

I laughed with 𝕷𝖚𝖈𝖎𝖋𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖆𝖓 glee,

at new age mysticism overlaid on carnal dystopia.

I laughed at my own pitiful doom.

But, I heard you too, C͎o͎y͎o͎t͎e͎.

Yipping & yapping in the distant arroyos of my holy gnosis,

with your own glee.

You laughed at my laughter.

I fell for your trick.

This meme, these boars, this garbage heap,

a perfect place for C͎o͎y͎o͎t͎e͎ mystic.

As perfect as unmolested high desert,

as old growth forest pristine,

as myself.

Every place is sacred & perfect for C͎o͎y͎o͎t͎e͎ mystic.



I remember reading a tale of you, old C͎o͎y͎o͎t͎e͎.

You found yourself in a land that rained C͎o͎y͎o͎t͎e͎ vulvas.

You died of exhaustion, trying to love them all.

That’s how I want to die.

---

This is a submission for Ｓ♢ＬΛＲＰＵＮＫ ＭΛＧΛＺＩＮΞ