The Emperor wears no clothes,
but his pants sure are on fire,
lamenting loudly his woes,
the smokescreen wafting higher,
but each time he flaps his lips
and fans the flames with his lies
the fire catches on new hips
as his yes-men lie likewise
until the flame spreads elsewhere,
burning clothes off in a flash—
a trend that blackens the air
and burns our nation to ash.
Climate change is a persistent fear
that is hysterical at its core,
which is to say, in some future year,
the “womb” of the earth,
that place of our birth,
shall bear ungrateful humans no more.
Try reason instead of
try moving from your position of
and grow rather than
within this mountaintop shrine of
You are not a disciple of
but a squatter huddling around the sutra
of your own willful
Changing your mind will not
but to cease all intake
except your obstinate beliefs
will make you a lasting
Repeat your mantra of
over and over again
until you assume the silence of perfected
with your antiquated ideology
while the world moves on
You could step through the
to see a new plane of awareness
but your eyes have been petrified
The way outward
has been closed
by the way inward.
He held his bible,
bookmarked by bank account stubs,
against acid rains.
How long did they believe their works would last?
How many hands would their scrolls travel along
through history to be read and rewritten from Alexandria’s past
so we, today, could benefit from that library’s innumerable throng?
None, it would seem, for though Man sought to ensure all,
Man also sought to destroy with fire to complete the raid,
and today we wish to believe our knowledge can endure all
with smart machines, yet there approaches a global fire, also Manmade,
and no firewall will save our cybernetic caches
of Science and Literature and Art
from being scattered in futile ashes
when we have scorched this planet to its heart.
It was a family of mice
beneath the kitchen sink,
each a victim of its vice—
corpses rotten, beginning to stink.
They had been caught in glue traps,
their bodies black and distended,
having been looking for food, perhaps,
and finding themselves now ended.
There was a father, a mother,
three children all on the same trap,
as if one had been caught, and then another,
all falling prey to the same mishap;
none learning from the one that came before,
wanting an easy snack, an easy life
in a place of respite away from the more
difficult fields, with their toil and strife.
And now their leisure had them shitting
themselves where they hunkered down to eat,
unable to move, wrenching, then quitting,
giving up the struggle, or else tearing their meat
in fear of the end, consuming their own flesh
to survive just a bit longer, as if they might
see their old world again, the one still fresh
with flowers and berries and gentle sunlight.
And I wondered, as I threw them away
in the trash bag, with its heaps of waste,
whether we, also, would some dark day
be trapped on a dying planet, inevitably faced
with our own imminent demise;
wondering whether we would still choose to lie
to ourselves as seas boiled beneath ashen skies—
able to do nothing but watch our own children die.