A FINAL RESTING
PLACE DECIDED
When you whip the lastly grated windswept
plain, it is certain your bones will be there :
high above the new tree'd line, the fence,
the path, the water. All these farmers from
other places, they still remember their childhood
homes; the crowded and swamp'ed streets replete
with their own dangers and deaths. 'In 1881, my
parents fled the place they was at, wandered west,
then, t'here'. That's just how it was - if they
carry any scars, nothing ever shows.
-
Dirt passes like dust and the little prairie cemeteries
are still filled; still, because nothing ever moves.
Eternal factions and new-motor-drives, none of
that changes anything - neither the inclinations
nor the community force of ethical torch : 'we
each take care of each other.' Like a church,
trounced white and painted harsh on the dusted
plain, tall words with a steeple of meaning rise.
'Call out the authorities; these people are criminals
all; taking care of one another, heeding some
Communist call. At this late date, it must be
stopped. No predilections for anarchy now at all!'
-
I think to say, that's how it began : the Wobblies,
The I.W.W., the Homestead Steel Riots,
The Red Scare, as ridiculous as it ever was,
was right then born a'borning, and a scream.
No comments:
Post a Comment