H e a r t S o n s & H e a r t D a u g h t e r s of A l l e n G i n s b e r g

N a p a l m H e a l t h S p a : R e p o r t 2 0 1 4 : A r c h i v e s E d i t i o n

BOB RIXON

Brown Fields

o waste incinerator crowned

with blinking beacon red and round

your chimney smokes without a sound

they say these brown fields are a land

where nothing beautiful may stand

a ruined bog of muck and sand

by ocean’s touch, a tainted well

owned by the CEOs from hell

who never buy what they can’t sell

they forge the laws with racist tools

they bend us with these deadly rules

& smother children in the schools

the blue claw crab of Arthur Kill

is poisoned from our garbage fill

with mercury and mutant gill

along the marshy moonlit streams

the pipes and steam of human dreams

birds cry out their restless screams

brown fields are an ancient way

of egret, geese and salted hay

where children yet may come and play

clear primeval native paths

to summer dance and clambake laughs

& spare us Wankan Tanka’s wraths

how we extinguished all the fires

the burning tiers of toxic tires

was once the proof of our desires

accomplished this, again oppressed

we found a home, but dispossessed

incinerators do not rest

we cannot trust the long suspense

of technologic evidence

but only stand & make defense –

eternal love’s intelligence