BRAD G. GARBER

 

 

EARTH DAY

I ate some cow tonight and was Google-Earthed up to dizzy heights to see where it came from but it looked like Argentina or California were arguing about bovine dominance while shit flowed to the oceans amidst rejoicing bacteria fungi beetles all of those lips swiping oxygen from the atmosphere to replace it with lighter gases and I watched packs herds waves of bipeds creeping across plains and woodlands in search of flesh to replenish flesh entire thoughts of nature weeping into bone piles and feathers blowing around the world as if planting would generate less extinction water unleashed and falling clear and blameless in its intention the almond groves shriveling beneath a painful sun milkweeds offering themselves to butterfly ghosts a fractured rock Wisconsin sand blasted bleeding matter of ancient rain forests tar on beaches stumps stumps stumps all the silver shining fish against grey walls smell of home drifting down blocked alleyways a pale haze above detail great walls of fire soot exhaust slicing across continents like dry river beds no single flower no lizard no tree just dark mud of humanity left undulating along the sand weaving carcasses into fabric and there a dolphin or a gull or a boat from Japan the children with flies drinking their tears mothers gazing upon fields of death sinks filled to the brim with grim toxins and the toxic liquids of ease indifference hatred coated with sugar burning across glasses of alcoholic greed the blue swirling light of a failing planet.

 

Brad G. Garber writes in the Great Northwest. He fills his home with art, music, photography, plants, rocks, bones, books, good cookin’ and love. He has published poetry, art, photos, essays and articles in many quality publications. In 2013 and 2018, his work was nominated for a Pushcart Prize.

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