Pt I triptych-tockin’ walkin’ through the woods:
trees talk © 1-10-10 firstname.lastname@example.org
no. you cannot hear them with your traffic jam eyes and radio blurb ears.You can sit there for hours and not hear any rock and roll.But they would inform you.They could warn you, bless you with their grace and wisdom. Cry out.Love.[What else do you know that grows better when you piss on it?]In the absence of hatred Nature does not know hatred until Man brings it.Trees need help-mates–trees are not individualistic. Ayn Rand wouldhate the tree philosophy that informs tree culture.She’d sneer it was communitarianism on her kindest day.When the wind blows–a shriek–is it tree terror? No? Then what? Wait.I have. Oh, beat slowly my hasty, pounding heart! Creeeeeeee-eeak!I have no idea what is being said. I look around. Some birds fly out and in,tickling the branches.Wind. Now. It becomes a chorus of creaks and shrieks and rustlings as branches greet above me with strokes and caresses, reviewing alliances and liaisons of root-level import–across overhead chasms. The soil knows. It tries to help, inspired by browning leaves, but becomes annoyed:all this constant chatter from it’s myriad lovers, nurturers, and sucklings.Birds babbling incessantly stacked like wallflowers in from their dances in the winds they did not make. They talk too fast for the stolid home-maker trees.They are busy-bodied back-scratchers in the hierarchy–seed and pollen-spreaders, helping to build up the tolerant soil. A floating leaf slaps softly against my face–speaking volumes. I fall on my butt in the grass and begin to cry. —o—
Pt II: trip tick tockin’ walkin’ through the woods
the soil whisperer© 1-10-10 email@example.com
The soil talks. I have spent many hours waiting for its wisdom to reach my ears. But, no...I think not. I am of the opinion the soil speaks another form of language not necessarily aural. Mixed metaphors, comic riffs in slow time, ricochet responses to questions other than mine, to be sure. Long vowels only, if any. Perhaps one a decade. I already have two words, if you wanna call them that:One is “lush-growth.” With a balance between fungi and bacteria (both would eat all the roots if either wins.) So that war has become a dance...amid the detritus.Two is the expression of loss in sign language. Soil runs off in flood when it is not feeling secure. It needs root hugs all the time–for all the work it does. at least. If not it races off with every rain. And it flies away in wind when not moistened properly. (Mother Earth you know.)Two word-signs for two varieties of loss: soil run, and soil blow. Sign language. I know soil when it says lush or loss. I put my hands into it far as they will go. Under brown dissolving leaves, past white striata, into dark, almost black decay, to roots. White full healthy roots of all sizes down to the almost invisible...gathering, inter-twining, chattering away like children in an underground kindergarten. You hear soil through the fingers. You mostly talk back with water and some sand. N, P, and K. Soy, peanuts, mustard, hemp, and certain rhizomes provide the gutterals and the ooma-mau-maus. Flowers and towers of architectural art carry the tunes and the runes.
Mostly I just listen.
Pt III: trip tick tockin’ walkin’ through the woods
the pictures we paint will be seen by our children’s children © 1-10-10 firstname.lastname@example.org
we hold now no fear.
There is trust.
Heart to breast; breast to heart.
We feel the pulse of another and it is enough to replace all our vaunted vocabulary.
We feel our nest, our cocoon, den, warm shoal, mound, aerie...
We feel the birth of our new world serfdom rising out of our sharecropper past.
We see them practicing in Islam and America Latina, Latvia.
Prisons larger than some deserts are being born (you have to think big to keep up with these Monsters of the Universe.) We are guilty of course–it’s always our fault:
the powerless, the ignorant, the worried starving masses who did not borrow enough
from the food years and got nothing in the bad. We who do not know what to do.
We who listen instead to our chests pounding out the beat of our calming familial loves.
We who sort it out as best we can. If we’re lucky we get to work our shit jobs.
In recent years the births of three new prisons illustrate our foreboding: Haiti, Honduras, Gaza.
Among the 10 poorest places in the world. And small. Like tarry sea gulls in our handlers’ steel-meshed hands. Crushed wards of our leaders’ frozen succor laid low by simple lack of water, bread, bread, blankets, tents.
Fenced in by racism and oceanic sieges. By hatred. By bottom lines we cannot imagine.
We hold on.
We send 80 billion in armaments to Zion to replace what they dumped upon the holy meek, the Arabic ragamuffins of the screaming families of Gaza. New, and faster, tanks, hummers, rockets, spray bombs, white phosphorous for school yards, napalm in case we need to burn the cover off the desert, daisy cutters for the plazas, and Un-depleted uranium bullets by the millions...for the future generations of the gulag with duplicate body parts growing out of their eyes, Let them eat ragamuffin stew!
How many Nobel Peace Prizes does a man need?!
After what they did. With shouts.
And not one box of Wheaties for Gaza.
Their umbilical tunnel is bunker-busted.
After what they did. With slingshots...those stones flying at the Praetorian thugs in all hours. Who could even hang the wash? The homemade bottle rockets. All that broken glass.
We paint pictures with broad brushes in thin blood.,.not our own.
Modern art says: a new kind of prison. Modeled after Eastern Germany. Gulags 300 through XYZ. Stalin’s Siberia. Mao’s hist’ry writ in blood and war.
So we’ll create peace-like serfs: we’ll put their nasty little hands to work. Making un-depleted uranium bullets for us to use upon their future gene pools. In sweet Zionic irony.
–they complain they need werk
Let them make menorahs, for American tourists, uber alles.
The way Haiti used to make baseballs...until they too became whiners.
They are so filthy we let them eat roaches. Without water they rarely wash.
Honduras has exportable quantities. Haha.
Bananas! To them to them all. Our t-shirts from here. Running shoes. Run, run...
Comes the ghetto-blaster...
Banana Republic gunboat diplomacy: who says Obama means change? Obama means johnfosterdulles. And more werk for Pinochet’s otherwise unemployable bad boys.
There’ll be no minimum wage on this shift! He’s a flash back to the Big Schtick.
What’s next? Nicaragua? I hear Chiquita wailing, "And I’m here to stay!"
I can hear the desert calling...like a siren’s wail...water! Don’t cha listen to him, Dan:
He's a devil, no, a man, And he coats the burning sand...with Water!
They'll have water-ways below the reach of wooden wheels
pumped by camels led round by children!
Cool, clear water...l'eau pour Haiti...
They can werk the water pumps...pure Saharan water for our cities. For LA elites who tire of ripping Fiji.... For Congressmen dry from huffing up war games.
We’ll send them movies...zeig heil!...for water...of how we disapproved and improved their lives.
Right, Brownie? NOLA was just a practice run for these three new gulags, which are practice for the Rockies or wherever the next hammer falls.