on rereading the Anarchist Cookbook

slippery absorbed pockets

slouching in back door galleries

avoiding eye contact,

hip, expecting nothing,

infected by human flies

carrying radiation

wearing brown business suits

soaked from nervous sweat

threatening the Old Spice aftershave poise,

the needless bong of profitmaking

wrapped up tightly into ionized unfulfillment

we must report when the human lines form

behind the apologies-

how can we

desert the Earth?

in this particular area

a guy believes he needs to make big bucks

go in so far over his head

mortgage the house and kids

smack around poor whore mama earth so much

that this gigolo reappears as an abandoned john

no, Mr. Jones, better free the planet instead,

allow her to return to her own magnificence,

her tone is flat and gray you saw to that

her breasts were mastectomised you saw to that

your surgeons are thorough…

her teeth are missing-

tell me, can pearls be replaced?

your razormad barbershop shaved her head you saw to that

no artificial grasslands could ever hide those scars from your right wing genocide!

but that’s not enough, right?

you always come back for more, right?

some addict with no quit

never giving back

always taking away

boxing it up for sale

off to Wyoming

mixing chemicals

shipping them to Detroit or Newark

ripping open the coffin

dragging any remains to the undertaker

burning up sanctuaries

and finally somebody’s hillside shack

a blazing ½ hour burn

while lighting another filtered cigarette

then heading off to bed to your concubine

the deluge complete

instead, what if a garden took over

grew into that gorge

that void you sired and plundered?

what if there were carrots and kale

instead of U310?

could you swallow that sort of xmas gift?

could you find some humility when someone finally sticks some dynamite up your pack animal’s ass?

would you somehow consider your mortality

while munching on your poison porkchops?

hey- that would give you all the more reason to come out fighting

even though it wouldn’t be profitable…

hummmmm…?

oh, come on now!

you must show up

with your cocaine obvious chemical American male meatsmoke carcinogenic complexion!

you see, there is something more than wallets at stake here!

you see, there is our humanity to be considered!

you see, we plan to be around for a while

and this is a novel place, after all, to come home to

after driving down Route 66

after running down Interstates 80, 40, 95, 10,

phantom trucks shuddering and bulldozing by at 2:00am

coffeehouse waitresses looking like they just returned from group therapy

forlorn and exhausted,

but when you hit Route 66 and Cochise Stronghold stands there

and you decide whether to make just one more stop to appraise the Chiricahuas up close

that compulsion happens every time, right?

just one more sale to complete, right?

and before you reach Bisbee city limits

then another town,

so there’s one more chance

cause you are a child like us all

and Mother Earth is forgiving

to those begging for another chance, right Mr. Jones?

so now’s the time to warn you…

the decision will not only be yours to make this time

for the 80’s are here

those weirdos you read about in the Wall St Journal reside out here

college kids from the 60s and 70s

lots of them

teeming

living down the street from you, Jonesey,

definitely not mellowed out

instead memorizing chemistry books

attending even more poetry readings

considering the coming-on-anyhow-decision

concerning the survival of this planet,

and these weirdoes continue breathing magnificent green fire

hanging out in packs

wild dogs

growing fangs

rereading the Anarchist Cookbook

you understand just what this means?

you are terribly obvious to their ravenous perceptive bloodshot eyes

your smell is repulsive to their eager noses

and you invented the aerosols of disintegration

used on germs and other forms of death

you who proudly market death

afraid to challenge our hip armies gathering along your white picket fences

not scrounging for pretty blue rocks this time

not gathering wildflowers for lovers this time

no longer drinking opiate tv commercials this time

no longer worrying about the darker feelings metastasizing in some

who cannot communicate for fear of labels

or other such past generational western neuroses,

those kids are no longer young

they have been scarred

they are opposed to plastic plastic plastic surgery

they collectively work on their dreams

(can you remember when you stopped having visions)

they are writing letters to editors

running for office

growing organic food

building windmills and designing passive solar homes

they are using chili powder and neem oil in their vegetable gardens instead of insecticides

their consciousness is as solid as the RockawayAtlanticOcean

as truthful as a Rufous hummingbird

still,

do not be afraid Jones

even though the odds are drastically against your kind

it is not too late to reconsider

the Way has not yet been recorded for posterity

the Book has not yet closed

there are still vents left

alternatives are still possible

my generation still practices forgiveness

so go to your church

temple

pray to your Son or spirits or whatever you care to call God

dismantle you flamethrowers

put away your knives

recycle your guns

hire Gary Snyder as your consultant

at last look at us fellow earthlings in the eye

cause we are your brethren

your wives and husbands

your brothers

sisters

neighbors,

your goddamned teachers

who always prefer the Earth

who now consider your probation time used up

who have just received orders

to finally once and for all

clean up your corporate mess

one way or another

with you or probably without you,

Mr. Jones

1988

Tucson