"Whitest Teeth"

One can hope, can't one?
Though angry days like robberies elope
with shows we fondly thought might longer run,
and all prepare to greet the latest Hun
of unwelcome tidings, anyway, one can hope

to endure it. In this murk where not to grope
equals infirm survival, i shirk the sun:
fleet, i say, be fleet as an antelope
(i type, as though one just like that can)! Hope,

so perishable, gives way to blindfold fun
in the course of things. I dwell on this & mope.
Does it affect my daily choices? Nope.
(I hope i will not have to buy a gun.)

All gracelessly, and yet we still do cope;
peons know their odds are slim to one.
Marooned in a war zone, on a mountain slope
they grow the crop that feeds them, namely: dope.


William Gibson's playlist. (via Beyond the Beyond) --I find plenty of Dock Boggs on YouTube, anyway.


Only small adjustments are needed to save the world: to want less, to walk instead of ride, and to eat what is grown nearby in its right time. More and more these simple ideas take hold; gradually people cease resisting them out of selfishness. The noise called civilization stops, but the thing itself--goes on.