How can you have something
like this written in Oregon, emerging from
its shores kissed by the long-travelling
cold waves of the Pacific, from its evergreen
forests of filtered sunlight, mist and snow,
and when you go east, across the mountain
passes, in the drier land of Idaho, you
find a fucking white ethnostate being built.
And then you remember what was
the intention for Oregon, a white ethnostate,
and you think all this an aberration, like
all those Beat writers you loved as a teenager,
tracing their travels across the continent
from maps, and that most good comes
from the minorities, the genocided
indigenous, those brought enslaved
or indentured, to work the cotton
field and build the iron paths to
bind Manifest Destiny, and you feel pity
and sadness for all that could have
been and could be, if only all the
Caucasian masters of Turtle Island's wide
loins would be like this, how could you
but love them? But that nation
has chosen AR-15s and abortion bans
- what should she say and write about
that! - and fascism with blonde Jesus
over this, and you despair. Oh yes,
the land will endure, thinned,
and new beasts will come in place
of those driven to extinction, and
perhaps, one day, there will only be
people always coming home
amidst the living land
breathing in tune
with it.
26.04.2023
#Poem #Poems #Poetry #Verse
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