Meanwhile in America/the news anchors make a show/of indignation at the sun, righteous/& well-coiffed as fallen angels, &/never speculate why we might/really be so hot, never mention that we are blowing up mountains/& burning their black hearts to keep cool.---From “Heat Indices” by Dave Bonta, Via Negativa, 07-22-11
RANTING IN AMERICA
There’s fire in the hills that needs deep dowsing,
there’s fire in the hills that needs good licking!
A cry for combat, if there was one: All patriots,
stouthearted sons and lovers, all brave hearts,
from sleepy hamlets to the hungry metropolis,
rally to these stars and stripes. Let’s finish this!
Meanwhile, in America, its heralds blame the sun
for doing its job of fiercely shining--- not to burn
the parched villages whence come the spunky lad
now coming home from wars in Iraq or Baghdad---
but to nourish those amber waves of grain,
and fill the granaries from California to Maine.
No, no one blames the blowing up of quarries
in mountains to extract fossil fuel for lorries
that lumber through the highways of America
bringing to every hearth and home in America
that same camouflage of a bomb strapped
to every man, woman, or child and snapped
ready to explode as it has now detonated lives
out of their homes in Arizona, market dives
threatening bankruptcies that would not respect
Wall Street giants, Bronx tramps, and now expect
even what used to be the strongest, richest country
on this wobbling planet, to fold up, quit as sentry
to the peace and quiet of a still lovely blue planet
whose very people might have forced its sun to set
in the deserts of starving Somalia, bleeding Sudan,
butchered Afghanistan, un-safehouses in Pakistan,
even in every child’s crying corner labeled American.
Ah, but the weary hand in the farm is still American:
There’s fire in the hills, but I’ll lay down my hoe,
bear a bucket, lick that fire. God. See the job through.
---Albert B. Casuga