Photosynthesis
Posted on 28 December 2009
I note it driving behind them:
the sly glance out their rusty passenger window
to the three trees rooted temporarily in boxes.
Easily steal-able (I imagine) into their GMC bed,
drop down the rattling tailgate, late at night.
They talked excitedly
the two dirty fingernailed men, faded jeans,
turning hard at the next curve
in their greasy cocked caps
and a whiff of Top 40,
everything around them
a potential rape and pillage (I imagine)
with their delicious baby mouths
of suck and porn
and muscled dark tan arms
with sleeves rolled up
and faded shirts (the kind
Ralph Lauren claims as his).
Oh, to be that kind of young again
when every oyster spreads its legs for you
and the nails you hit on two by fours
sing out your praise and you can sell
those god damned trees to a guy
your brother knows and drink till three
and roam the roads for other trees
and slide back down deep into that warm salt sea—
anything, anything! but this dull, cold
dig by the numbers
where you fertilize and plant and water
every clockwork day and careful
not to crush the leafy fingers
as they too slow sing their deep green
rootedness up.
1 Response to Photosynthesis
For 2010
After charging my Motorola cell-phone
for presumably the last time this 2009
I recall why I had to buy that brand
and not the then all-Swedish three-band one
- as a good patriot on this side of the “pond”.
You could not buy it in the country of its orgin
because it was more dollar-lucrative to sell it abroad.
Yeah, the Motorola with its
chimney-resembling antenna,
served us good in the Land of The Free
a little less than ten years ago.
Now I sit in the leather cosy-chair
with my eyes glued to
Dan Brown’s “The Lost Symbol”.
Fascinating that popostrious idea
that the most important
source of man’s spiritual
and physical well-being
was brought to the Hill in D.C.
because “the Europeans” could not
get it to grow and flourish
due to chains of prejudice and lust.
But now it’s plants from southern soils
that keep the minds of masters of the universe
in halls of mirrors telling them that’s all OK
while slowly all lust for frontier-fighting
are going West across the wide, wide Ocean.
The greasy, heavy baton
of the worst-polluter of the world
is handed over to the new
leader of the shrinking Globe
where all acient wisdom
is sold for empty shells
of steel.
But soon the multi-color remake
of the 1900-century illfamed
Opium-War by Brits and Froggies
will end all that.
Where do we stand with no real plants
in our secret garden left to look at?
“All what you say ought to be true
but you ought not to tell all.”
Humanity, the choice is for the individual.
The result is for all around you.
H.