we mobbed the place
in formations, like teeth
crowding into a mouth, behind lips
pressed together in a hum
a lullaby, in the face of it
I can count on the fingers
of two-and-a-half thousand hands
the deflections all the many mouths
have muttered, the reasons for
not seeing what no one
wanted to see
the impossible thing
in plain view
And the elder gods looked down upon us
and all that we had done, and with grave countenance
called upon the Faerie Oracle for guidance, and came she
into the hall, emerged she from her trance, fixed them
all with a haggard and frightening grimace, and
proclaimed she, “send Greta!”
We shrink from July’s
sizzling face-lick, as August
stokes the coals and prepares
its glowing branding iron.
Biosphere’s down with a fever
fighting the infection that’s
razing her trees, fouling her rivers
smoking her skies.
She’s picking bits
of plastic from her teeth
with all the patience
she can muster.
The oceans evaporate
—and mingle with the air, sky being lung to water. Days of thirst, nights of deluge, mountains of liquid, mist like evacuating angels. Wisdom stands somehow mute while we change the dressing on a festering misconception, and the atmosphere convulses in another round of violent coughing. During the storm, shutters slap in a heaving, belligerent wind, the effect somewhat muted by the plaster walls of our carpeted room.
There is a flexibility
—to the way the minutes pass and the storm outside has lifted the building from its basement. Foundation bricks peel off in jagged wordless paragraphs. Lightening reveals dark forms in the clouds through the rattling panes of window glass. They look like dinosaurs, like great dirigibles hanging in the sky, tethered by giant tubes, wires, bundled and twisted, disappearing into the tumult of vapor and thunder below.
We will settle
—for nothing less than the full account. Our shack must land on the wicked witch. Appease the gods, pay off the sorcerers. What have we forgotten? Have the Enterprise beam those whales back up. The sea is not ready for them. Our abridgment comes at high tide, as the water crests that city on a hill. Now convenience stands on its head. How inconvenient.
If thinking is what makes the world
then fish thought up the sea.
And earth worms thought about the soil
that’s how it came to be.
When monkeys put their minds to it
they thought up all the trees.
And flowers spread their pollen wide
by thinking up some bees.
The air itself, it drifted in when
lungs began to swell.
Then eardrums, bored with all the silence
thought us up a bell.
Then humans got their bellies full and
crafty, they construed:
They started thinking “what if we,” and
now we’re nearly screwed.
Peace, it doesn’t thrive on growth
it’s conflict that takes naturally to
the idea of possession and expansion.
How often the fights we have
within ourselves get out of hand and
spill out into the wider world.
Where the path to reconciliation, once
much simpler, has branched out, circled
roamed, split, and split again, until
simplicity begins to lose its memory.
Cell division looks painful, does
it not, to a peaceful frame of mind.
But looks exciting and beautiful
to the enterprise, one becoming two
grow, it says, or die.
And we look everywhere but within
when, seeing it all spin out of control
we finally become desperate, and ask why.