“Oh, where have you been, my blue-eyed son?”
“To market, to market, to buy a big gun.”
in our habitual
failure to protect
wealth, polluted with
waste—we admire and support
we spend time
staring at our screens–
motionless, a shadow of
Jane Dougherty posted some randomly generated words this morning for us to use to make a poem. After seeing “blue-eyed” I could not get Dylan’s song out of my head, and the word “market” provided the reply, mirroring both the news and my continued distress about it.
I struggled to go somewhere else, but ended up with the above depressing and not-very-poetic shadorma chain.
Dylan (as always) says it much better than I.
I’ve stepped in the middle of seven sad forests
I’ve been out in front of a dozen dead oceans
I’ve been ten thousand miles in the mouth of a graveyard
And it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard, and it’s a hard
It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall