Howl, O Gate. Cry, O City.


I’m not saying now, but some day
our world could dissolve into the ocean.
It’s possible we’ll see smoke from the east.
Golden bells might tinkle their magic tunes
and iron chains would be broken.
But what the hell does any of that mean?
You tell me. Go read the Bible.

Erm … please don’t believe that I am thumping
that ancient book. I’m not. I swear.
It’s possible to get the same value
from John Milton, if that’s your thing.
A better example would be Virgil.
After all, he prophesized Christ
in one of the damned poems he published
back in 30 … 30 B.C..

None shall be alone, the messengers say.
Moab and Nebo rule the road
shaving heads and scraggly beards with great joy.
Woe to those dressed as lumberjacks,
who choose to chop trees with sterling axes
to build strip malls and liquor stores
and cash-advance, pawn shop, “We buy gold!” joints.
That’s commerce in 2015.

Fields of green, red, white, and blue
are covered by black and yellow
parking lots large enough to keep all the
gas-guzzling vehicles safe,
but ancient oaks sendeth ambassadors
and sycamores send harassers
to heckle those who created weekends
as a concept in ’26.
That would be 1926, my friends.

Work until you’re done? Yeah. Ok.
Try to pull that off at work on Monday
you’ll be job hunting by Tuesday.
Rich people treat poor people as their slaves.
The greedhead misers? They run things,
but now so do all of their closest friends.
A cabal of them getting theirs
while you get nothing. That’s how they want it.
Judges, lawyers, cops, name the job.
– 99% of them can be bought.

Them? They won’t hesitate to rape you
and take away everything you care for
because this is their world, damn it.
Their world! Their world! Their world! All this is theirs!
They shout like a bratty child
when you calmly request a raise in pay.
They loathe laughter, music and fun,
When these assholes hate something they take it
and water it down ‘til it drowns.

That brings this poem back around
to the first few lines about this planet.
The end will happen. Embrace it.
Learn to make fire. Learn how to survive
and when you inevitably
run into a man in a three-piece suit
in the woods, surrounded by wolves,
toss him a dollar bill and wish him luck
like a good Samaritan would.

Then again, if you give that guy money
he’ll probably bribe the wolf pack
and live alongside them for several months
before killing them in their sleep
to open a fro-yo franchise
where the largest tree in the forest stood.
“Yes, you have been left with less shade,
but isn’t this pinecone yogurt yummy?”
he’ll ask, as he grins and straightens
the framed dollar bill he once took from you.


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