the world and i

a collection of poems

monopoly money 

crows, sky-high, devour 

worms: ceasing flight, unto crows’ warm corpses worms feed.

for a new world 

as the world caves in, like a decaying

bookshelf, lopsided, heavy books crushing

miniscule tomes at the bottom, i hear their cry

to be glue. to be the twisted nails. 

to keep their bloated, beer-bellied volumes

standing high-to-heaven so we may continue

to crane our necks. 

and i ask “why?” 

but they don’t respond. 

as the world falls apart, like a boot infested

with maggots, eating away at and crawling up

our moldering limbs, i hear their order to be

the shoelace. to strain ourselves. to pull

together a ragged, half-rotting piece of leather

so they may continue to feed on us. 

and i ask “why?” 

but they don’t respond. 

as the world burns down, like a live, blazing

log cabin; a roof that will soon collapse on

everybody, i cry: to hell 

with the bookshelf. the boot. even the cabin.

to hell with them, the locked doors hoarding

water. no time for keys, let us be the axe to

end their reign. 

but i ask nothing 

for i am tired of begging.

their land 

you and me 

roamed and rambled 

in the shadow of the steeple 

sign was painted, said, “Private Property” 

that golden valley—that freedom highway 

from California to the New York Island 

this land was made for 

“Private Property” 

above me that endless skyway 

sparkling sands of her diamond deserts 

below me—the dust clouds rolling 

by the relief office I seen my people 

as they stood there hungry 

a voice was sounding: 

this land was made for 

“Private Property” 

I followed my footsteps 

to the Gulf Stream waters 

there was a big high wall there 

“Private Property”—tried to stop me 

on the back side, it didn’t say nothing 

the fog was lifting 

this land was made for 

you and me 

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This poem is adapted from Woody Guthrie’s “This Land is Your Land.” While this song is well-known as a patriotic song today, not many people know that the original version, written in 1940 when America was still consumed by the aftereffects of the Great Depression, contained three additional, more controversial stanzas. Later censored because they reflected Guthrie’s radical views, I have reproduced two here: 

There was a big high wall there that tried to stop me 

Sign was painted, said, “Private Property” 

But on the back side, it didn't say nothing 

This land was made for you and me 

In the shadow of the steeple I saw my people, 

By the relief office I seen my people; 

As they stood there hungry, I stood there asking 

Is this land made for you and me?

pieces of myself 

“if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it,” 

pa retorts, polishing my trophies until their flawless luster reflects his face, making him blind to me, behind him, fired since birth in the blazing kiln of paternal pressure, pushing me to shape up into a trophy. but clay is not gold. 

pa thinks i will melt, and solidify 

into his image, yet i see each fiery, red-hot emanation sending pieces of myself 

flying until a thousand shattered shards slash pa’s white-marble face, shrieking, “if this ain’t broke, when will it ever be whole?”

8:15 a.m. 

the alarm clock’s desperate cry, (raucous roars, but yet still shy?): like a puppy, kicked and whimp’ring, (can’t that moaning creature die?) staccato in its plaintive pulsing: (ravaging my fitful sleeping!) 

“up!… up!… up!” is its soft whine. (“down! down! down!” i keep insisting) such a dissonant, strident sign, 

(shrieks unfit to tell the time!) 

still, cacophony drives a sigh. 

(right, okay, I’ll get up, fine!)