Near a dried up river
with fire all around
lies a hole that used
to be solid ground.
With a barrel of metal
and a handle of wood,
we hollowed out the promise
where a tree once stood.
There we gutted the truth
and threw away the bones
now we’re flopping around
like Alex Jones.
Raking the muck.
Digging the ditch.
Stirring the pot
that only feeds the rich.
They’re building rockets
to escape our toxic lands,
while we’re pointing fingers
without any hands.
Newfound Lake,
7/18