I have no idea what is happening – it’s like throwing pennies off a bridge. I just can’t get comfortable – it seems like the only thing that connects my life and art together is pain – it’s painful when I put them together – and more painful when I pull them apart. In 2007 I quit straddling the pain, quit my job, and moved to a rural studio in New York State. I work on creative projects, work on my life, and work on the day-to-day necessities of existence. No cell phone, no social media, no networking. But as I work on the books displayed on this author’s page; I feel another kind of pain — the pain of not working on something else: my printmaking and drawing are being neglected, my poetry output is a dripping faucet, and it looks like I’ll be telling NYFA that the Idea Enhancement Project just added another year to its timeline. When I read what I’ve just written; it’s as true as anything I can think of — but then so is the opposite: I need to process everything that happens . . .
September 8, 2021
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.