This howl awoke into a fog
A late winter hovering on summer’s brow
Shifting dreams into shivers
Shifting giants into trees
And stones walking in silence
To wind blowing softly
Upon the giant’s sail.
A lone small bird soared effortlessly
Into and then out of fog
Looking regularly at the ground cover
For the days feed of minions and minnows
Bobbing with the grace of an oil lamp
Stained the colour of desolation
Like a sea captain standing proud
Upon the hearth of a sinking ship
Smoking his last bowl from his foreign pipe
Blowing heavy clouds over the valley
Set deep inside his heart of a howl.
Tag: oil
No More Trees, Money’s For Me (day 2064)
It’s ok that we cut down these trees for warmth
Let’s not get upset about our mountain
Turned crater, shipped to the moon,
Our water is a good memory, a clean memory
A clean memory for my dry lips
Afraid of this purple water
Maybe my dinosaur bones will take me home
To a land full of ten year old trees
Where water flushes the land clean
No more dirty top soil: eroded,
Home where the magical golden clouds
Hover just above the skyline, stinking
And water is just slightly brown
Mycelia? No, my bill fold needs more dinosaur bones
To sink into these fresh water lakes
Chopsticks, chopsticks, chopsticks trees
Get these poles off to the mill
Down that road of rubber and oil
More dinosaur bones and I’m ready to kill
Floating at 70 miles an hour
In plastic rocket ships, towing plastic bricks
And you there, strange looking person
How many toes do you have? You’re not one of us
Your skin is funny and your smell’s different
Let me see your papers that say many things
I don’t believe you can grow your beans here
See, my dead trees and stretched metal rings
Say: ‘NO TRESPASSING’
Get out, leave us alone
You’re filling us with lies
Unless you’ve got tits, beers, football, and guns
Money’s for me, and less of you.
Ashram Day 24 (day 1427)
Community sized kitchari
Essential oils
Toilet paper
Protest Poetry (day 975)
What was the arctic before it became an oil well?
What was a forest overrun with trees?
What was my name before I was a sibling?
What was my right before I’d been stamped?
Did I come straight from a hologram?
Was I brought home on a road?
Whence and where from did the light come?
And the warmth, did it come before gas, painted and housed within four block walls of a thousand pixels per inch?
Where did I walk to before a wood chipped trail led my way?
How did the day fill before the calendar?
Can a city be a city without city lights?
How did one tarry about a late night corner before floating electric drones showed I was withing safety?
Because dammit, I’m starting to wonder
Is there any point in the quest?
What is the point in stuffing our bellies?
Where did the idea of nik-naks come hither from?
How did function get replaced by aesthetics?
When did choice become demand?
When did want become a dire need?
Why did our brothers and sisters turn from extensions of ourselves to examples of our desires?
When did we lose all of our trust?
And where has my community resettled?
Where has my tree grown its roots?
Where is my moon?
This is a protest poem
Dry Air (day 968)
Dandruff
Dryness
Oil
Brothers and Sisters (day 288)
We fight for our money
We fight for our bread
We fight for the clothes on our back
But do we fight for our brothers and sisters?
We fight for our gold
We fight for our oil
We fight for the car that we drive
But do we fight for our brothers and sisters?
We fight for our computers
We fight for our iphones
We fight for the laptop we squander
But do we fight for our brothers and sisters?
We fight for our drugs
We fight for our pension
We fight for the crimes we commit
But do we fight for our brothers and sisters?
[This poem is dedicated to the brothers and sisters who are effected every day by the terror of what is known as Kony. Please give the Invisible Children a voice.]
