|Earth Part II|
by Gregory Wilde  /  poetry  /  24 Oct 2007
How do I get to know you?
What strings do I have to pull?
Mattson trucks sailing in,
They're keeping our island fed and warm,
Oh, what do I have to say?
To sit down and have my way?
Cars and parking lots,
Filled with clouds of smoke and garbage,
If I ask you to go with me,
Will you stay or leave?
I've been to the seas of time,
And there's nothing live just jillions of landfill islands,
I'll bet you're a real smooth one,
Sitting alone at a Starbucks,
Heaps of people running around,
Bashing their trucks into the ground,
Spinning oil and disease,
Like a game we pretend not to see,
But what's the use in talking now?
Everyone has muted their mouths,
And what's the point in writing black,
When everyone's changed their ink to white?
Oh, there's no point now,
We've traded in reality for heroes of yesteryear,
Gods and monsters and killers in the sea,
Comic book players and annihilation machines,
Cars that explode and vans with bombs,
How is this our collective beliefs?
What's the use anymore?
To speak what's really happing in war,
To write what people think?
It's easier to kneel, than to see.
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