Energy sector

Red sticks the knife into the floor.

-Tell me, mister tyrannosaurus rex,

or do you prefer something gentler,

diplodocus or iguanodon?

What brings you here to our

little corner of the valley?

Mack gazes up at the ceiling

of the porch. It has more of

the helicopter and spider painting.

He sees now that the helicopters

are trapped in a giant web.

-Chance. I am just going

away from things more than

going towards them. I had

no knowledge of this place.

-Making your getaway?

Not very quickly on that

clunker you were pushing.

Doesn’t it have a working motor?

-Yeah, it does when I can

find a place to charge it.

The problem was the tire

going flat. I already used

my last tire patch.

-I see. We can probably

do something about that.

You haven’t said what it is

you’re getting away from? 

Embezzlement? Bad life decisions?

If it was theft, you should have

gone for a bigger score.

Red pries the knife loose

from the floor of the porch,

tosses it down again.

It joins dozens of nicks

in the wood beside her foot.

-Nothing like that. Like I said

I’m a dinosaur, the energy sector

is changing from oil and gas

to nuclear, you know? those

new generation small reactors?

I don’t want to have anything

to do with toxic industries any more.

-Right. That’s pretty much what

our community, the village of Harmony,

is based on. No toxics, whether

it’s chemicals, or energy or how

we treat each other. Interested?

-Yes. So what does that mean?

Becoming a member or something?

-That depends. What do you have

to contribute to the community?

We don’t have much need for

industrial logistics managers.

-I know how to fix things,

mechanical systems, basic electrical,

plumbing, and like I said, I used

to make furniture. More than

just simple tables or cabinetry.

Things of beauty. Is that something

that people in Harmony would like?

-Maybe so, we all know how to do

all those basic system things ourselves,

some folks more than others, we had

to figure out a lot of stuff on our own

when we put the town back together.

Red looks up at the web painted on the ceiling.

-Maybe we could use more beauty,

there’s never too much of that, right?

-Never. Well almost never. Kind of depends

on what you think is beautiful. Some people

like the new cities with their structures armored

against heat waves, hurricanes or floods.

So much exotic metal alloy and 

windows smarter than I was in high school,

tunnels instead of sidewalks.

All climate controlled with the piped in scent

of citrus or the sea, computer-generated

soundtracks of waves or birds,

breeze in the pines. Sensory simulacrums.

Tuned to you with AI! Your childhood favorite scent,

not your neighbor, Alexi.

-Not too much of that around here.

We have the difference between actual

grapefruits, oranges or lemons.

And goat manure. Wet soil.

Bread baking in the oven. Each other.

Red's House

The house crouches

under walnut and orange trees.

Tall fan palms pierce the sky

beside the gravel driveway.

The farm house is the century-old

bungalow style, with deep-shadowed

porches. It was a cheery yellow

some years ago. Now it is

peeling and faded

to a weak memory.

-This is it, mi casa.

-Very nice, I like all the trees,

I bet it stays cool.

-Yeah, mostly. I run

an old swamp cooler

when I’ve got enough

power to spare.

Red pulls the truck up under

a trellis covered with

ancient climbing roses

that are mostly thorny trunk.

Sparse leaves and a few blossoms.

-Bring your bike up on the porch,

I’ve got a pump if you’ve

got a patch kit. Let’s have glass

of iced tea first. You look parched.

-Thanks, yeah, kinda.

Mack stops at the bottom

of the stairs to the porch.

There are spiders and

humming birds, barbed wire

and helicopters, painted

on the pillars and banisters.

Red looks down from

the top of the stairs.

Faintly smiling.

-Did you expect unicorns

and sunflowers?

-Well, no.

I didn’t really expect anything.

Are you an artist?

-No, I’m a farmer.

But I like to make things.

-Ok, me too. I used to.

-Used to? You can tell me all about it

while we have a glass of tea

and I dress this rabbit.

Mack hauls his bike

up onto the porch

and sinks back on

one of the old couches

lined up against the wall.

The yard below is deeply

shaded by the walnut trees.

Patches of crabgrass surround

the trunks and crawl across

the sandy soil.

The hinges of a screen door

squeal and the door bangs shut

as Red returns with two tall glasses

of tea, the rabbit, a knife,

and a blue-speckled tub.

-I’ve got honey or lemon if you

like it sweeter or sharper.

-This is fine. Thank you.

Red sinks back at the other

end of the couch. Slips the knife

under the skin of the rabbit.

-So tell me Mack, what are you

doing around here?

And what did you mean,

you said you used to like

making things too?

-Oh, furniture mostly.

Not professionally,

maybe I should have,

I sure spent a lot of time

doing it. I enjoyed it

a lot more than my ‘real’ job.

-What was that, if you don’t

mind my asking?

Industrial logistics management.

That’s the glorified title

for it. Basically managing

the parts and tools

for the oil and natural gas

industry. I’m a dinosaur.

Or at least an endangered species.

-Really? Big oil?

What made you get out of it?

Were you fired or quit?

-Kind of both. I was planning

to quit, but they fired me first.

-Well, pardon my lack of tact,

I’ve been told many times

I have no filters, but what are

your feelings about the

fossil fuel industry?

Oh, they’re murderers, thieves

and rapists for sure. I didn’t

think so when I started. I bought

into their whole “we’re researching

environmentally sound solutions”

greenwashing bullshit.

I know, very naive.

Willfully blind? I guess so.

-uh huh, So you came here

from Mars or Pluto? No, more

likely from Uranus.

-oh, most definitely Uranus!

Well, what does that truck

you drive run on?

Vegan toe nail clippings

and lemonade?

Red tosses a lemon slice

at Mack. Yeah, like this one.

He catches it and sucks on it.

squeezes his eyes shut.

She snickers, tries to hide it

as a cough. When he opens

his eyes, he joins her.

Their giggling erupts into

laughter that ends with

a sputter. Both wipe their eyes.

-Actually it’s electric. Didn’t

you notice how quiet it was?

-Where do you get the power?

I didn’t think there was any

of the power grid left out here.

There isn’t. But I have some

scavenged solar panels. Takes

a week to charge the truck and

it’s only enough to go fifty miles or so,

but I don’t need to go even that far

any more. Harmony, our little town,

-what’s left of it- is just up the road.

Red deftly pulls the rabbit’s skin

off the carcass like taking off a glove.

Slits open the abdomen and removes

the organs and drops them all in the tub.

-The raccoons will enjoy this tonight.

Harmonyville

Wild peas and poppies,

purple, green, and gold,

edge the blazing pavement.

Red-winged blackbirds

twitter in the reeds.

Five men watch

a backhoe eat

the farm house

across the road.

The sun is molten

chrome. Mack pedals

slowly, his back tire

is getting low. He’ll be

walking soon.

A crow picks at

the fallen cherries

that dot the road.

They never ripened

on the tree.

Mack dismounts

his bike, looks for any

fruit that he can salvage.

The crow scolds him

from the skeletal branches

of the dead orchard.

A woman in a dusty truck

slows down to his pace.

Calls out the window,

-Need a lift?

-Yes, thanks very much,

where you headed?

-Harmony. Just toss

your bike in back.

-Is there a place

where I can get

something to eat?

-Not much since the cafe

and the grocery closed,

but don’t worry, I’ve

got some laying hens

and my trees ain’t dead yet.

-Thank you, that's very kind

of you. I’m Mack.

-Nice to meet you, Mack,

I’m Lisa, but people call me Red.

-Nice to meet you……Red.

Mack looks at the mess

of black curls tied loosely

behind her head. Lisa

notices his puzzled face.

Yeah, it isn’t because

of my hair. Folks think

I’m some kind of commie

because I never did go along

with what they thought I should.

A jack rabbit darts out

from a ditch beside the road,

sees the truck and tries

to double back. Bad timing,

there’s thud as the truck

hits it mid jump.

Lisa looks up at the mirror

and eases to a stop.

-Guess what we’ll be

having for dinner, you

like rabbit, Mack?

-Yeah, sure, been a while

since I had lapin a la cocotte.

-Well this ain’t gonna be that!

I’m thinking lapin a la fried.

-Sounds good to me.

the garden of milk and honey

Can I reach into the heart of the world

to the eyes of men and the ears of women

and bring it here, now:

immediate and living,

the purr of a cat beneath the hand

the smell of asphalt and bread in the oven,

like that: sharp

and full of the instant and the past.

A bullet whining through sunflowers,

dropping a petal onto warm plowed earth

a second before it slams into a house

that is all too familiar

with blood and projectiles.

and weddings.

births.

funerals.

That flow left its mark

along with other recent miseries

etched in chipped cinder block

snapped runner strings

where the beans fall trampled

under night boots

and somewhere nearby

a girl listens to a heartthrob

on the radio.

Like her mother did.

And the boys on the corner

talk about her, laughing,

like their fathers did.

The lights go out

like they always do,

just the glow

of cigarettes on the street

and candles in the windows.

And the girl's song goes dead.

waiting. again.

For the mercy or the joke,

never knowing which it will be.

Are the gods always so arbitrary?

Is that the secret of power,

no reasons given or understood?

A universe, cold, random,

and not to be explained.

Where are her kisses and sunshine?

Buried under corpses and offices,

drowned by a thousand million channels

of noise and whispers, sirens and love songs.

Can I find shelter

like the boys on the corner

or the girl in her room

waiting for the lights to come on?

Is this our garden?

bomb-stripped trees, graves,

perfect fruit from the tree?

Images of everything are available.

It doesn't matter how lovely or sad.

You want to see them?

Google it,

and you can have it

in your lap in a moment.

Do we have enough books

and paintings and atrocities?

I didn't find my girl on the fourth floor

with her window view of eucalyptus

and her memories that burned

and ruined her world.

She dreamt of me

and dogs and thugs

while I slept there

-and wandered here

in the storm-bared roots

of stolen streams.

Bones

That sparrow

scarfing KFC scraps

in the gutter,

has bones in her wing

the same diameter

as the needle that killed

Jimmy and Jane

at Turk and Hyde

last night.

A feather, a breath,

a sorrow.

Inevitable.

The death of a rose

-sweet for a day

or a few.

I thought some things

might make it deeper

than one season.

However,

yesterday’s scent

persists.

Miracles and kisses

We watch the sky for miracles

and purple kisses, this universe

that hides by day and winks by night,

the home of bombs and skeins of geese,

honeymooners on the wing to coral beaches

soldiers to the sands and ruins of Babylon.

A falcon flashed across my office window

this afternoon, chasing pigeons like

an F-16. We scan the blue, searching

for the hand of God to point

his angry finger: you!

shall watch your children die

and you! will hit all five numbers

and the mega. Be sure to thank me.

I can rain frogs and pirates

on your head. Take a clue from your

baseball heroes. They look to the sky

and point. Because it all comes from me,

sitting on my throne of clouds

watching afternoon tv.

Yes, the Guiding Light was mine.

Don't laugh! don't forget my wrath.

Consider what happened to the dinosaurs:

I turned them into birds or bones.

I sent the comets blazing through the night

filling the cosmos with my seed.

Did you think you were the only ones?

That would be especially boring, look around.

My termites, ants and beetles

out weigh you ten thousand to one.

Oh lord of flying saucers and mosquitos

have mercy on our heads,

spare our umbrellas and our nine irons

from your lightning and your rage.

Give us signs and omens,

like the Romans in the flocks and stars,

We'll give you offerings of kites and Cessnas

and try to cut down on the smog and smoke

I think we understand, Gomorra is your

prerogative, not our Hiroshimas

There is just one small thing,

if it wouldn't be too much bother,

could you take some pity on the lost?