REPLICANT

I want
more life.
I'm thirty-six
one hand
scrabbling in the gutter
one
dangling by my feet.

The man with the gun
is coming
face bleeding in the rain
bones
jutting from his fingers.

I've done
questionable things.
Seen
so much that will be lost
when I am gone.

His steps are close
his breath
freezing.
I throw him
all my scraps of paper.
Then I fall.

NO OIL

Bad news from the north
and the queues growing longer.
Late winter, I remember,
when the shipments ceased.

There was still oil for some
which showed
where power intersected with need:
Agriculture.
The rich.
Ministerial limousines.

The rest of us walking,
riding bikes, taking trains
living
as our grandparents had:
valuing land
for what it can grow.

A Great Leap Forwards
in reverse
our faith now
in the wisdom of the old.

The world to the north
turns to poison
a battle
of each against all.

Here we cling on
in the ruins of a false economy
doing to others
being done unto
looking back with angry eyes
on a century of waste.

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