Are you at all, like, outdoorsy people here in Tucson?
Probably you are, right?
I did a thing.
I, like, taught a workshop in a place where they had bears.
And so they had to give us a warning, what
to do if you run into a bear.
And I know it's one of two things.
You're either supposed to play dead or attack it and scream
and yell.
And I cannot remember which one it is.
[LAUGHTER]
And it seems, like, super important to remember which
one, because you get it wrong, obviously-- so they were like,
OK, here's what you do if you run into a bear.
And I finally was like, oh, OK.
I can remember that.
So anyway, this is instructions.
So this is not only a poem that you can enjoy,
but also it's useful in case you run into a bear.
Now I don't know if this applies to all kinds of bears.
So don't-- you have to do a little research on that.
But anyway, it's called "Bad Bear."
"Bad Bear."
If you see one, you can say bad bear right to its face,
even if you're not sure.
Maybe it's good and has discretion
in relation to the delicious treasury of human garbage,
or even the eternal work of bees.
Who knows?
But it's OK, on the path, with your thunder voice,
unequivocally to condemn it.
Lore says that will make it leave
so you can go tell your story in the tent,
and again at the table, laughing without asking,
what violence brought you there?
You and all that food from everywhere,
those flowers you eat, and do not
wonder who told you it's OK to lie even to the rich
or to save a life, even your own?
In the middle of night, in the cave,
you will hear the eternal question even
darker than what surrounds.
Was I born this way?
Or was it circumstance that condemned me?
Silence answers, you were born to be condemned
everywhere but in poems.
For a while, you hang dead leaves on the night tree.
Then they fall away.
And all that is left is this honey you stole from the world.