This is the political version of Hansel & Gretel—we must hurry. And we must hurry for the night is coming. Hurry because, well, if you’re over fifty you’re on the “back 9” and there’s no help for it. Hurry. Even the birches shaking their long autumn circlets of yellow leaves tell us to go faster. Perhaps you should take more vitamins, eat more roughage, subscribe to a new magazine, become an anthroposophist.
We have almost no time. The clocks are almost obsolete for when nature is dead what’s left to count—are there “days” when the water is gone? Oh hurry, the private companies own most of the water, they’re buying what’s left even as we loiter here. Didn’t we care? We said so. Long ago, maybe some thirty years now, we went to a reading by the poet Gary Snyder. We wept for the earth’s condition. Back in those days we thought we still had time. We were silly. We spent too much time in the libraries. We thought too much about our own poems. We did not love the earth with our whole hearts.
Hurry. The leisure classes dance to songs of sugar and brandy. The television shows fractured skulls and blood on the pavements of Mumbai.
The clocks are almost obsolete. Remember when time was just time? Now we are on water time, roots time, oxygen time.
Hurry. In these post-modern moments we are not supposed to give off a political cry.
Hurry your weeping. Its not sufficiently ironic for “The Daily Beast” or the network.
Hurry up but be Zen about it.
Hurry. Stop talking. Hurry. Talk as much as you want.
Earth, as we call out to you now, you have the right to expect our full attention.