Summary: Two poems on possible futures and the alternative to capitalism — Editors
Marxists dream of a Final Crisis,
class clashing against class,
a final victory,
and the rebuilding of a wilting world.
But now, as the final crisis nears yearly, clearly,
fascists arm and march for power
through streets that cross the globe.
Climate catastrophes and pandemics
first one, then two, then
a festival of horrors
where even the apocalyptic Four Horsemen
seem a truly lesser evil,
while our forces wander and bicker,
Don Quixotes tilting at each other
even more than windmills,
at sixes and sevens, behind eightballs about
race, gender, and class
knowing only that the threats are
with no shared ideas of what the enemy is,
or if there even is an enemy,
much less how to win
or, God help us, what if somehow we blunder to victory,
what to build or what to dream?
advice to future tribes, if anyone survives
Once you have invented wheels and writing,
honor your farmer poets
who sing of soil and tell tales of
tunneling in darkness
to intubate the thirsty roots.
Write how trowels nurture earthworms
even if they slice them,
but that chemicals and tractors
kill worms and roots and crush the soil.
And what if some among you
build walls of stone or iron,
swords of power
to rule your tribes,
to hoard oxen to roast so their salty aroma
lures children to lust for wealth?
What advice could I give,
myself a child of a suiciding civilization?
Perhaps, to sing that earthworms
nurture organization at the roots,
and that the rich too can be eaten
since we are many,
and they are few.