creative writing on environmental justice
First, we made sure the world was devoid of sentient inhabitants.
Its turquoise skies grew greener (we thought) as summer waned.
On the wine-dark sand we drew diagrams and planted pennants:
a cultural center here, a spa or hotel there, on an imaginary beach.
At least one of the suns was always rising, and the light perfect
for filming, as if the planet were a vast, . . .
for Rabindranath Tagore
At the dawn of the 21st century
in this era of war and deaths
my soul seeks refuge in poetry
though no one writes like Wordsworth
or Keats because lakes have dried
and daffodils do not bloom to inspire
the poets—the sylvan vase no more
impresses them to find a seam
between truth and beauty
Once the world of innocence
the world Blake portrayed . . .
I want to sit in my SUV
combust dead dinosaurs
into aerosols as tangible as need
I want the Monsanto magic
for my lawn, my Big Boy tomatoes
I want to wait in the drive-through—
engine roaring, gas escaping,
invisible music pumping into my box
sealed . . .
The bull who bars the gate to heaven
remembers you from an instant
ago, when he stepped onto a New Mexico road
and you failed to hit the brakes.
You’re still adrenaline-charged as you confront
him again: flesh so hard it crumpled
your sedan’s hood, a skull that made
glass snow of your windshield,
and horns that pinned your hand
to the leather seat. Nobody but him
is . . .
A curvy-topsy tornado funneled up, not down
uprooting the sky-trees from the cumulus-sea-above
dumping them on the ground where they are all
dying from lack of clouds and too much media attention.
Greenpeace has converted several transport slings
designed for beached whales but the sky-trees keep
falling through the canvas no matter . . .
I am a writing machine. Scratch that. My memory’s not keeping up with me. Let’s start over. I am a counting machine. I count the days, I count the numbers. I count the money, and I’ve even counted the years. You gain some you lose some. Dollars, I mean. Money too. Typing counting machine. One, . . .
I startled you the first time.
You spilled bougainvilleas deep violet
from your lap, bursting all around
us. The whole forest was staring
at me, waiting to see what came next.
You ran before I could finish
calling your name.
I sympathized, you know.
The iron devils had already
moved in, their teeth marking your trees,
splitting rocks with their toes . . .
when rainwater becomes our source of bathing
and the rest fills a gallon of semi-clean plastic
humble roofs turn tin & rust
suddenly the word enough
rhymes with barely
the clothes we will sleep in are also living in the daylight
and the days are then measured in loss and love
humble roofs become tin & rust
we will discuss enough
but only find barely
On hands and knees between two rows of dry
potato plants, I sweated far from the rest.
Otōsan had dug the ground for me with two
great sweeps of the tractor, up and back, so that
the roots of all came loose at once and made
simple the task to fill my red pail heaping.
No rain for weeks made cracks appear that sliced
the soil into great slabs, heavy as rock,
and those I moved—teeth . . .
I’m not sure who the sky is
when it’s not the sky
but I think I know this river
was once a beautiful woman
viewed from above all bodies
of water look like someone
you once loved and the color
of the trees only matters
when there are trees at all
and sometimes I imagine
that we can solve everything
design cities that fit into
the . . .
