• Vol. 06
  • Chapter 08
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A mixture of blacks and blues and reds,
Precise and sharp but standing in fine rain,
misting down on an unseen parade,
the future, perhaps, where all march
with hung heads proclaiming silently
our guilt for all that has befallen mankind.

Oh Artist! Cartoonist! A woman, why a woman?
Gender confusion sets in; a business woman
in a seersucker suit, respectably coiffed,
orderly, black tie, circular tribal pin, triangular
handkerchief peeks neatly from her breast pocket.
Vertical stripes take center stage, chosen to highlight
endless growth and profit margins gone mad.

Meanwhile the blue vines and roots grow
wild in all directions all at once, invading
and reddening the flesh, confusing the order
of things, darkening the brain. A four-fingered
hand tips her hat like a true gentleman at home
in the neo-gilded age. Her lashes and lids
are manicured. Her face, perfectly egg-shaped,
represents a misshapen sun burning in all of us,
unsteadying us, discomforting us
as the ice melts and seas rise.



The face is shameful, too, flameless but glowing
with heat, eyes downcast, mouth — expressionless,
but everything else says remorse, regret —
none better than the oversized blue tear
that matches the color of the limbs
and roots of leafless trees that are a part
and not a part of her.

She is a poster child for the coming extinction.
She is a he and a part of all of us,
She is creator and destroyer
wrapped in attractive wrapping,
a defeated bundle of joy, representing
the sorrow that comes after the greed
has had its way with her.