I'm in my bomb shelter, my heart.
I'm listening to muted sirens and explosions
Above where the ATM machines
Are waiting for the mobs
To withdraw their savings
So they can evacuate the city.
The earth was really shaking
So we got up and now we're waiting for fuel.
And now we're waiting for Shiva
Or Yahweh or Putin
Or Joe Bidin to tell us what to eat.
I woke up wanting to bomb someone.
I think it was something I ate. Was it the ice-cream?
Starch, processed foods laced with preservatives, sugar
Have gutted my theology.
My bad diet has created black holes in my intestinal wall
That swallow nuance.
My immune system has become purely reactive.
And over-reactive. My vagus nerve is frayed.
The intestinal wall leaks
Letting large fatty molecules and pathogens slip though.
My immune system is a war room.
Hawks pack the halls of Congress.
No one is listening to the Dalai Lama.
War is the only answer.
What I eat lacks all self-love and imagination.
I only crave what is worst for me, for us.
Poets resort to scrawling slogans.
Artists paint large out of cans.
Anarchists topple monuments of Southern generals.
Forests are clear cut for woodchips.
Giant wind turbines on the ridge exacerbate my vertigo.
Who knows what is right or wrong.
We lack the ability to communicate.
Am I angry or afraid?
I cannot process nuanced emotions. Neither can you.
You say, angrily, I'm going to live with my friends in Seattle!
I shout, bitterly, I'm going to move to Berlin!
Might as well join the mob at the ATM.
When we eat a lot of sugar and starch and red meat
No more translators, no more culture,
No more festivals, no more exotic medicines,
No more shamans, no more rainforest. Get out the flame-throwers.
Make way for the professional killers.
(Article changed on Feb 25, 2022 at 1:04 PM EST)
