Moving Forward
errol miller
We have formed
an alien society, twisted sociology
into a windswept plain, planted turnips
in the flower garden, so tortured
our novels cry and never tell their tales
going to Hell and Evermore in starched white collars
American artists disappearing into the waters
of our dimlit times, it is that
apple pie syndrome, our brother's keeper
meanwhile, on Main Street, purring engines falter
amber lanterns sway upon the Delta's levee
dark freighters sail to Zanzibar
a marginal achievement we have sown
rye grass and winter wheat, read
Walden several times, strained
for independence: where has all
of our energy gone, a nationwide sophisticated
system if immature lovers trading lovers
in back rooms of neon-glazed hotels
I cry for all of us stranded in
an anonymous warehouse at three a.m.
out past Des Moines on sleepless nights
the wind becomes a roar, travelers
from the North homesteading mistaken grounds
what we need is a clear and concise lullaby
a morning paper, strong chicory coffee
the sun is rising, the moon is down in menopause
and the path to Shangri-La littered
with beer cans and stalled Earth-Machines.