An astronaut, adrift told me a story

once

was there a village on the banks of a great river

it was clear

and carried the image of stars

Downstream

where a town rested, hoping

that one day it would do the same.

But as the town grew and grew the

river yellowed and greyed.

Great factories breathing

smog and fire into the air and poison

river withering away. So a smog, a miasma

Embraced the city as a violent shroud

and the city was lost to darkness until

Great gaslamps lit the city through miasma

alighting the city forever for a time

well

until one day the river stopped flowing, corrupt

And the machine-wheels of the

city stopped

and everything stood still. The miasma

lifted and the gaslamps shut

And the people screamed in terror at the devils,

dancing mournfully in the dark

Above them, like watching angels.

And there was fire to brick and wood to shun

these angels, burning homes and factories and one another

to dethrone the lights of skies with their own.

And there was no place left to wander but fire and ash.

silence.

silent.

For they had forgotten the stars.

I wonder if this is why the astronaut looks

Out of his rocket ship

in fear,

Afraid that if he looks away the stars will forever disappear.

The ocean has healed quickly and taken back our world now.
It is our fault.
We chose to devour all things, and justly,
the Mother of Whales and little lost things has taken it back.
“Stay,” my parents order, desperately moving water out in buckets
from a factory turned house that sinks by the day,
ever slowly.
I shake my head as I get onto the raft, a little thing made of memory and shell.
“No time.”
And then I lay down and let the waves take me far away,
towards new, distant lights that sing, speaking a new tale to tell.

Pain seeps deep into my soul, I say it’s because the earth has left me
I pray for salvation from the fire, but He said that I am the fire that consumes me
Tears sting my cheeks and ignite into flames, as I ask for proof for that absurd claim
Alcohol was poured till I choked, in my body it bursts and burns my throat
From His hands I sought for more proof, till my very breath stank with poison
The fire soon escaped me, because the fire consumed me
I am the fire, and I have exhausted the fire, so that the world shall no longer perish before my feet
But I smell blood from a slit in my heart, I fear another fire shall start

i. creation’s truth, man’s rejection
creation remains a phenomenon of the divine.
and yet, hubris simpers from above (a golden calf),
watching man swagger, stepping up to the throne.
perhaps, this is just how it always has been
and always will be- our knees bruised from
kneeling in pews, yet after Sabbath, i find that

our greatest commission is demolition-
man knows this & man cares not, that

god creates & man destroys- and
no one knows this better than the earth,
mother of the mother of exiles
ii. mother’s regret, child’s remembrance
come, she welcomed you and i
with open heart and hands,
go, she spurred us forth, as we
plundered, “pioneers”
except we are nothing but thieves, hog-wild
and squealing with delight
basking in the glory of
committing our homicide
did she know? when she let us out of eden,
the defilement we would bring?
did we know? when we were led out of eden,
the destruction she would see?
for once, the earth sang. i cry, because
my children will hear nothing but
screams and shuddered sighs and

“stay”s, we plead, we weep for her-
she is tired, poor, yearning to breathe free

our mother of the mother of exiles
this ground once holy now haunted,
this dirt once rich now just dirty
the earth is dead and we have killed her

iii. i am tired of prayer (can only heaven save us?)
the only thing we have left to do is to
hope, pray, get on your knees, and ask god:
just this once, let man preserve- maybe,
destruction is inevitable but please give us
just this once: the power to heal
and if god can move mountains, surely,
in his likeness, man can move themselves
to plant the seeds of contrition

Cracked concrete.
When did it start?
When did it end?
How in the world did it come to be like this,
And why, why, why did it begin?

Cracked concrete.
A battle amongst men.
The concrete reaches for cohesion,
While nature ravages at each end.

Cracked concrete.
A tree’s roots steadily burrow into the gray
And the man’s hard efforts to fill up the fray,
The chirping of crickets against a jackhammer’s thump,
The scent of flowers and earth against the odor of oil and dust.

Cracked concrete.
Oh what a paradox this is—
Should we help the flora
And destroy the road?
Or should we increase construction
And ruin nature’s abode?

Cracked concrete.
A balance is needed

A middle ground must be found
Or anything and everything
Will be burnt to the ground.