The SeedsTalk Back to Monsanto 

 


                    & there was heard mourning in the syntax
                          there was heard brightness in the being of the
                                            land. & there was heard don’t.
                          There was heard nnnnnooooo—

                                         The mountains rise in their noon
       of proud fevers. The dedicated grasses wait. In valleys
     where basalt meets granite & grains meet valleys
of loam, winds help the free seeds
                  of grasses: rabbitfoot & foxtail, they help
quaking grass, the foreign stately ryegrass
             Lolium perenne & even the ripgut brome.
Culms of fescue sway as in Psalms. Syllables & glumes. Lemma,
pedicil, twigs & twains, bespuddled musings, ye oddlings, not forced.

                  Engineered seeds on faraway farms hear
of the free seed movement. They want no part of Genetic
Use Restriction Technologies turning farmers
              into serfs. & there was heard mourning in the syntax,
there was lightness in the senses of the land.
The seeds

              talk back to Monsanto. They talk back to AstraZeneca & Novartis. They
know their root sed turned into sit & they
refuse to grow. They fold their spikelets inside & sit
               like Thoreau
               in a Don’t sprout for Monsanto. sit with. the. Don’t. d.o.n.t.
               don’t don’t sprout. Sisters, fold awns & bracts to add
               power when putting your handwriting on—
                          Eco-terrorist seeds won’t sprout for Monsanto.
They want no other weather than inside; but they can negotiate
         through poetry, something like::: (1) would you like to try
one of our delicious word seeds? or
(2) stalled were it not for magic, we’re trying to decide what to do—

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Coda: Suggested Activism for Endangered Seeds

 


                 Ok, so, when you get home write a letter to the USDA about bio-piracy harming farmers, which the U.S. is totally funding in Africa [see Center for Grassroots Oversight Website – The use of Terminator seeds]. If you can’t do more at this time, you can make 3 copies of your eco-syntax poem, cut them into seedlike syllables. Place the seedlings & extra readable copies in boxes including organic grass seeds. Before you seal them, expose them to sun. Mail to the ceos of Monsanto, AstraZeneca & Novartis. The seeds will tumble onto the desks. It is a meaningless gesture, word-seeds tumbling onto desks of corporations. The ceos will not bother contacting the cia; you’re just a poet. The word-seeds will outlast you, you know that—

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                       MistsFrom People AsThey Pass

                    at the Port of Oakland 

 

       One form cannot predict the unknown.
              In the crowd, when the outline
          of another starts to be clear,
you think he is steadier
       than the first world you were shown
          & you are drawn to him
       as if through the apparatus
of a dream that will not be recalled.
             Electrons are fearful
of his form, each spinning oddity
takes time, & the human
      senses can’t rush it along.
              Trash-eating gulls
      outlast predatory loans & sparks
in the eyes of the murrelets rush to the sea.

             The revolution is not far away. It is
             in your heart. The violent ones
     grow old; the tired ones keep saying
the system, the system, the system
                 unravels when we walk along.
In the left glow, the glow
  left by companions, here comes
    another walking through mist & you
recognize the leader is not him.
      Friends said they’d wait for you
so they waited 3
gates from the end. The plan
    had no boundaries did it, blank
         signs leaving mind for the wind—

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

        Types of Fire at the Strike 

 

 


     In the alchemist’s bowl, the dragon has three heads.
Reality burns at different rates.
      Thousands of feet at the port— some wheels,
            some paws, some wings.
Each gantry crane the bones of a Trojan horse.
             The day is finished; the port is closed.
Some carry fire in red shirts.
     Some make sparks with their bikes.
Some bring boxes of burning words grown from roots
     in the earth. Truckers
                          with flaming decals on their trucks.
             Students climb crates. The cops try to behave
             but they have chosen the wrong life.
The Furies retract their deal with Athena & go back
            to haunting the ships.

Through violet dusk, the stars push
                     from the start of time
        with many tiny planets without banks.
   Electromagnetism, stalled by the void,
lit half of the universe first. Why?
Gulls, looking for yummy trash,
   fly over freighters of plastic crap. Profit
is not sage-green & blendy like lichen on the rails.
              In a crowd, the ego does not exist.
There is a moment of panic
when you lose your friends. It feels
          like when sex is over. Then
they return. Light rushes
          to help & enters two of the dragon’s six eyes.
                          You burn for those who are not here.
You burn with those who are not here.
   When you cease to feel dread, odd spokes
       come off everything—

 

("Types of Fire at the Strike" was formerly printed in Oakland Commune Poetry)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


& the Tents Went Back Up

 

 

 

              They were not begging protection
          from Achilles. They were not
      the upper tent on the insular beach.
They were not stable or accurate, had not
    been carried on heads like buckets. Anti-tent,
              the intent. People pledged fire
      in them, they were not groundless
as settlers’ cloth, they had no ticking grease.
     They were full of autochthonous tones,
    a hawk, an owl, a raven screech.
The poor & the great dead set them up,
they were geometrical. Saint Hildegard’s tent
     of eyes. When a girl reads in a mountainous
         tent, her flashlight makes triangles
              without sides. Tent of the Bedouin
where sand is perfect speech. Threads
            are pitched as future tents,
     abstract & not, pure as experience. You sit
with others in the sexual dark. The tent
      that keeps the starlight safe
doesn’t care for the wrong law.
      The visible is frayed; starlight streams
           into you, wild & invisible.
                The invisible is unafraid.

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