Sitting at a table on the sidewalk outside a coffeehouse downtown. Dylan. “How does it feel to be on your own, like a complete unknown, like a rolling stone?” Feels like this:
Greenland is melting, the ocean’s a’risin’, And it’s all happening faster’n anyone knew, California’s burning ‘tween mudslides and earthquakes, Burning summer down with the end of the country blues.
We bow down to China, kiss the ring of Putin, Bribes from foreign enemies can’t be refused, That the president’s a traitor there ain’t no disputin’, And congress sings the chorus to the end of the country blues.
They’ll take whatever they can steal, come hell or high water, They’ll ruin everything they touch till there’s nothing left to lose, They’re gonna leave the planet ruined, our disregarded mother, They’re drivin’ the train to end of the line, to the end of the country blues.
Got a Hummer in the driveway, gets twelve miles to a gallon, Got a Caddy we tool around in so you know we paid some dues, If it gets above a hundred, our air is well conditioned, And with five-thousand tv stations we’ll ignore the end of the country blues.
The world order’s a’changin’, America fading backward, But oligarchs get that we’re fighting as they turn the screws, And I’ll stand out on the corner with a raised fist and a placard, Fighting for democracy, battling the end of the country blues.
So fuck you Mr. President, fuck you and all the rest, Surrounded yourself with imbeciles like there was no one else to choose, Nothing like the brightest, nothing like the best, Shepherding us to Armageddon and the end of the country blues.
They’ll take whatever they can steal, come hell or high water, They’ll ruin everything they touch till there’s nothing left to lose, They’re gonna leave the planet ruined, our disregarded mother, They’re drivin’ the train to end of the line, to the end of the country blues.
Kennedy died Tuesday night. Newspapers, radio filled with the news, A motorcade bringing the body from Hyannis To Boston this afternoon, "Leaving his Cape Cod compound, For the last time..."
This vivid day, too real, The too-bright sky filled with wisps Of cirrus clouds and cool sunlight, Strange to feel such Overpowering despondence, Anxious, jarring, awry.
Waves roll to shore, running down the sand, Two children launch a striped kite With a long tail, blue, orange, and yellow, North Hampton beach is covered With rotting kelp left by a passing storm, It's a great day For a funeral.
On the eve of a clash of historic importance, a rupture of world order, and a push ever closer to a precipice, over which promises strife, and war, and plunder, and an overwhelming sense of finality. The end of the Democracy
The last day of February dawns unnaturally Warm, radiant skies; we took the bug convertible Up through the hills, past spring fields, forests of fir And barren, mossy oak, glimpses of Cascades, towering Hood and Jefferson luminous white, majestic, Past overlooks of verdant farmland stretching miles Across the valley to the shadowy Coastal Range,
The last day of February the President of the United States and his vice disgracefully assaulted The integrity of an ally, double-crossed the leader Of a country at war with Russia, historically our enemy In the battle of Democracy against Tyranny For the hearts and minds of the rest of the world, And the potus and his vice broke our alliances, Threatened world war, sided with tyranny, and Dishonored the values of freedom, and history, and peace, Pushing, pushing ever closer to war. We become the enemy.
Tonight, a glass of red on the balcony looking west, Still mild, quiet almost, except roaring hotrodders racing Down River Road, have been since Covid, nobody stops it. But I have the stars, Cassiopeia, Pleiades, Venus, stars Innumerable in western darkness, dimmed only by The lights along the highway leading to the coast, Distant traffic passing billboards and businesses Before becoming rural, farms and wetlands running Out to the foothills, and I, surrounded in my fortress Of fir and cedar, watch from my ruins in the darkness As we move into a grim, uncertain future, Awaiting spring. Polaris stares down from the north, unblinking, But I am without direction, at sea, In a declining world. Alas.
Out with the dog tonight, surprised To see a first-quarter moon overhead, Facing Jupiter, both dodging overcast through Barren branches of big-leaf maple And sodden fir,
Dripping with winter rain streaming From the coast across the valley, blustery, Traces of snow, the dog does his business, Gives no care for the haloed moon through Gauzy skies.
They can’t take that away, barbarous robber barons Blindly, greedily orchestrating the demise Of the Republic, dismantling the Democracy, Forging a new oligarchy, of the rich, by the rich, For the rich.
Today was a protest in Salem, true Patriots By thousands, raising their voices in support Of our country, virulently opposing the shredding of Our Constitution, our Heritage, our dignity, At the sunset of Democracy.
Tonight, the moon disappears, rain begins Spattering onto the deck. The dog waits At the door.
So this is how history shifts, This turgid march to coronation day, Like a waking nightmare.
Please, don’t watch the next, last inauguration, a Vast spectacle of pomp and ignorance, We have been lied to long enough.
Rue instead the failed Republic, that we Turned over the keys to the kingdom To a sleazy chump, a cabal of cheats And thieves, megalomaniacs and zealots, Felons, imbeciles, and kiss-ass millionaires, Worst that I’ve ever seen. Worst there’s been.
But we are Americans, and it’s worth noting That in sixty-eight, resistance brought down LBJ, And in seventy-four, our government Removed Nixon from office, Due in large part to an independent media, Overturning a Landslide election.
Seven days of sanity remain. Let us build our resistance To this existential threat. The planet itself Waits.
The minority view is that greed, corruption, and ignorance Will win out. The minority view is that we’ll continue as we are, Electing despots, terrible leaders representing our Vaingloriously terrible ideas, unwilling to sacrifice Even the most inconsequential convenience To provide a secure future.
Seeing the parched landscape, the ruined forests Of California, bearing stark witness, bearing Stark witness to our taste for destruction; every Monstrously overpowered machine Tearing down the asphalt becomes a heartbreak, It’s no surprise that American automakers Would revisit the muscle cars of the sixties, And no surprise we’d buy them, So driven to deny the reality of the world That we live in, the world we’re destroying.
It got up to one-hundred and seven in Weed. We kept drinking water And the sun bore down On the river of traffic on five, To the west brown hills nearly Lost to the haze, and in the distance I thought I saw smoke.
The signs are all around, every day, Everywhere, inescapable, And still, someone out there Wants to put you behind the wheel Of a motor vehicle that gets twelve miles to the gallon, Hauls a ton-and-a-half payload, Seats nine passengers in air-conditioned comfort, That celebrates your American Exceptionalism With genuine leather seats, a vehicle that will Hearken back to a time from your youth That you barely remember, or never knew, That has no bearing on today, and will Certainly ruin tomorrow, in the minority view.
We’re visiting our daughter and her husband In their home atop Howell Mountain in Angwin, California. We were sitting in the shade on Saturday afternoon, Under ponderosa pine and oaks, by the garden, Watching black-tailed deer, a doe and her fawn, Wandering the woods behind the rusty backhoe By the fence. This morning, Sunday, sun just rising over the mountains, Air clear and cool, there’s a thrashing in the brush By the fence; the doe, struck by a speeding passerby Soon died, and all became still, And filled with regret, and in the minority view There’s an abundance of sorrow in the world, But regret? Not so much. That murdered doe Died for nothing, died because someone needed To get somewhere in a hurry Early Sunday morning. Didn’t stop, Of course, perhaps doesn’t feel regret, maybe Inconvenience, a dent, a bloody fender To wash, some would call it American Exceptionalism, In the minority view.
In the minority view, the ayes have it, And what our eyes behold Driving across this desecrated land As we approach, finally, our Manifest Destiny, is the rampant, Willful destruction of meaning, Of rationale, of sense, replaced, of course, By chaos, denial, and nonsense.
We window shopped along the sidewalks Of St. Helena on this sunny afternoon. There was a parade of classic cars and trucks, Vintage, collectible, in wonderful shape. Parked by the curb in front of the garden store A sixty-two Continental convertible, Top down, suicide doors, gleaming, But all I saw was a backseat Full of shattered John Kennedy, his shattered wife, And a secret service agent scrambling Across the trunk, And the world is filled with sorrow, In the minority view, filled with despair looking back At a past that, with a few tweaks, A couple of bullet casings left unspent, Would have led to a different future, A better one than the one we have, and a damn sight better Than the future we are leaving our children, In the minority view. Ask not what your country can do to you, Ask what you can do to your country, and Apparently American Exceptionalism gives you The right to destroy your democracy, one Gerrymandered vote at a time, ignoring The world as it is, and what it will become, In the minority view.
Perhaps California will secede from the union Once the religious right takes over, The new American theocracy, and if it does- Count me in, in the minority view. I remember Way back in the fifties, when Kennedy decided to run, There were great fears stirred up by Republicans, And those who really run this machine, That if the country elected a Catholic president, He would serve the Pope first, not the people, But here a new conservative Catholic agenda, Eliminating fundamental rights, against the will of the people, Brings home the paranoia of the Kennedy era, brought Home to roost here at the end time, And wasn’t it not long ago that Catholicism was Steeped in distrust, tumultuous controversy and scandal, For what they’ve done to children, what they did To Indigenous children, caught in cover-up rising to the highest Level of the church, and aren’t they still Digging up the bodies, and do we now, Now of all times, need, or want, to be Guided by Catholic, or any, religious doctrine? I beg, I plead not, but American Exceptionalism Means different things To different people, and may Even equate to Catholic Exceptionalism, In the minority view.
In the minority view We are up shit creek without a paddle, A vacuous, formerly magnificent country Without ideals or a future, Corrupted, hopeless, save a few rich citizens Lording over millions of poor, Racing down a dead-end street, lunatics at the wheel, And damn the doe standing at the side of the road, Damn anything in the way, pursuing Our eventual Manifest Destiny, the ultimate Path of destruction, in The minority view.
So have at, in a Hummer hauling a trailer Packed with jet-skis and recreational vehicles, the Huge Winnebago dragging a supersized Jeep behind, Have at, if we need more oil We can just go to war and get some, send the kids Back to the desert, or peddle weapons In exchange for crude. Whatever it takes, In the minority view.
Out tonight, after all is done, Mist rises across the valley in waves and swirls, veils the Lights out along twenty-two, running Out through the mountains To the coast, westward, sky darkens With the promise of cold rain tomorrow, Maybe for days, as winter begins, I look westward, but don’t see a future, let’s Just say I’m not making any Long-range plans beyond, say, January 20,
This is who they voted for, This is what they want.
01/01/2025
Out tonight, the holidays done, Drizzle falls through fog that shrouds The valley, obscures all lights Beyond the fortress of fir and cedar Surrounding this silent house, We retreat to our routine, but Nothing is the same, the overpowering sense Of departure, being cast off into whatever Nonsensical future lay in store,
This is who they voted for, This is what they want,
01/06/2025
Out tonight, the first clear sky in weeks, First-quarter moon settling into The boughs of deodar cedar and fir, Dazzling lights across the valley To the foothills, to the silhouettes Of mountains against starry horizon,
And it becomes clear tonight, that We move forward to an abyss. No miracle occurred today To save us, from all the maelstrom ahead, That our children and theirs must overcome. History is relentless.
He’s going to blow it up. This is what they want. This is what they voted for.
America was a hero when I was a kid, Fresh out the gates of the second world war, Envy of all other nations, In our strength and creativity, We built this modern country, Reveling in freedom, Confident of the future.
We were the good guys, leaders of the free world, Defenders of liberty, and truth, and democracy, And our streets were lined with gold, And our doors were open to all. I took great pride in it, this majestic land. Throughout my life, Even with our troubles, our warring points of view, Even when I knew we didn’t get it right, I thought democracy would hold, That our common goals would move us forward, Like the promise of a moon shot in a decade, A thousand points of light, Like the great society it took generations of Americans to build.
No, there's no shining city of the top of the hill, not anymore, No beacon of light, You can put your white hats away, pardners, Won’t be wearin' em, We’re riding with Black Bart now, We’re switching teams. We’re on the dark side. If there’s a glow at the top of the hill It’s a bonfire. America burning its once-proud past, And all that’s left Is smoke, ash.
Basket Slough overlook east, toward the Cascades 11/23/24
When It’s Gone
My political life began early on, when Kennedy ran, Democratic Headquarters was just off Water Street, Now the Phillips Academy Bookstore, I festooned my red Schwinn with bumper stickers, (One-speed, chrome fenders, fat tires) Kennedy For President! Ask not what you can do for your country, A man on the moon in this decade, Youth, vibrancy, and hope, And America was challenged, and responded, And then Dallas.
My political life Was shot in a pantry At the Ambassador Hotel, head cradled in the arms of a busboy, And the future bled out on the balcony of the Lorraine Motel, RIP sixty-eight, When history changed again. All the rest, ennui.
In the first election I voted, Nineteen, seventy-two, drove to the polls In my sixty-four Beetle, (British racing green, bad brakes, no heat) Cast my vote, drove home, and got high, Because I knew what was to come,
Watched the results on a plastic black and white portable tv, (Rabbit ears, bad reception, tiny screen) Channel 27, a tiny UHF station out of Worcester, Mass., Which carefully tallied the Bay State vote, The only state Nixon lost,
A landslide victory for another crook, and I learned, without doubt, That many Americans have different ideas About the direction to steer our country, Who will lead, what is right, What shade to color our history,
And I saw, brightly illuminated, How so many of us can be wrong.
See, I thought it was obvious, That Nixon was crooked. (Divisive, silent majority, nattering nabobs) Dragging Viet Nam through years of warfare To insure his chances for a second White House turn, (Dead soldiers, dead students, illegal bombings) Don’t change horses midstream, His evil cabinet… Won in a landslide.
A half-century has passed since that election, And presidents have come and gone, some good, some bad, And some of the candidates I supported won, and some lost, And I’m an old man now, watching our steep decline Into a corrupt, malignant, constricted country ready to elect A degenerate thug, pompous ass, pathological offal, Ignoring that his policies will not only doom the country, But the planet as well. Drill, baby, drill.
And I’m left with only the faintest hope That enough of my fellow citizens will find it possible To retract their craniums from their posterior and see This louse for what he is, degenerate clown, Preposterous liar, rich, lazy scum, breeder of lies and hate, Vile, vile, vile,
But it all comes now, so late that we’ve already lost, In a country where so many support this “populism” that is not populism at all, But denialism, So comforting to be told that climate Armageddon is a hoax, That we don’t have to give up V-8 engines, That feed the oil oligarchs and idiots still building Enormous gas-hog road-hog machines, still, As if the resource was infinite and not killing the planet, That we might still have our coal mines, and factory emissions, plastic, That we might still sequester safely in our houses, which are now arsenals, That we might still cradle our arms and stand our ground, That we might go back to the delusional whitebread country you always Wanted but never had, That we don’t have to learn Spanish, or pay attention to what’s happening To the rest of the world, So comforting to be assured of American exceptionalism, That the rules don’t apply, That you believe the big lie, The biggest liar.
Have we already lost? That there are so many Yearning for the lies, and the liar; that we’d disavow not only The threat of the future, but the promise of our history.
My father, my uncles, my grandfather went to war, volunteered To battle tyranny, the fascists, the nazis, And so many died, Returned damaged, wounded, proud, defending liberty, Freedom, even after years of deprivation, stood tall, What would they think of where we are now? Who we are now?
Sorry, dad, this feels like the end of the United States, We didn’t do a particularly good job of nurturing the experiment along, Patriotism redefined as neo-Nazis and skinheads with automatic weapons, Proud boys, oath keepers, kicking down the doors Of Congress, threatening to hang the Speaker, The vice president, urged on by a sleazy conman Who somebody elected president.
Imagine that clown sitting in Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s office? Abraham Lincoln’s?
Sorry, Dad. Mom. Uncle Bob. Mr. Walker. Sorry, Sorry we’ve done such a terrible job Watching the home front, disappearing freedoms, Disappearing future, and so deeply sorry too, For the future generations Who may, or may not, find a way To progress through the wreckage, That we leave behind as we Drift toward dissolution.
James Garland Poetry 