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