My bio should to start here:
“Early Sunday morning, June 4, 2017, I was sicker than I had ever been before. Too sick to even bend over, as I vomited all over the toilet, myself, and the bathroom floor — and I didn’t even care.”
This was the aftermath of being engulfed in a cloud of Roundup from a giant agricultural sprayer while I was mowing my lawn the previous afternoon.
The incident motivated me to write “You Know You Live near a Factory Farm When Your Kids Go Fishing with a Pool Skimmer” — a picture book with large print and cautionary captions. “Family Farm Fun” is the second book in the Factory Farm series.
At this same time I grew increasingly aware of the treatment that the rural community in the town was receiving, and began my blog on elitist policy making: Rural Tompkins County — The Road to Hell is Paved with Good Credentials.
As for right now, what should I do next?
I think I’ll go to my favorite pub. Maybe there’s someone there who hasn’t heard my story.
My brother says, “Good luck with that!”
Unlike the original poem, the barren waste in this poem is not the eraser of hubris, but the result of it.
Industrial agriculture would no more dare to openly debate their methods, than they would allow a rigorous accounting of the true costs of the “cheap” goods they produce.
They are not only killing the natural world and depleting our natural resources, they are covering up the true reason for their “improved” methods and materials — they are losing the ability to sustain food production — and are now locked in a disastrous death-grip with a sickened planet.