The World Won't Work Anymore, by Charles Carreon
Why?
I can't have a cup of coffee without gunning down
a peasant.
I can't drive my car for all the rubber we stole
and the oil, too.
I can't use the telephone with all that stolen
copper wire stretching across our country
I can't watch TV for all the silent words the
network newsman won't whisper (I'd like to
shake him by the collar, damn him, why won't he
just call it murder!)
I can't listen to the radio for all the inane
gibberish they want to pour in my ear
While they are telling me to forget I hear it more
clear
I want to go, go away from here
The earth stinks so much like buffalo blood and
bad whiskey and the grass grows like iron,
like twisted words
I can't look at the bananas,
they leer like speckled corpses
Even California raisins remind me of Indians
who starved to death rather than hoe grapes
under the benevolent eyes of the padres
The world doesn't work any more; I'm afraid
it's my enemy.