Personal observations, wild speculations, and/or possibly inappropriate humor.

Who Wants Pie?

In Japan, following the horrific destruction by earthquake and tsunami in the year two thousand eleven, a forbidding tableau continues to play out and, in all likelihood, will do so for centuries to come.

Within the dead zone of the damaged Fukushima reactors, ghost towns like Futaba, Namie, and Tomioka, once home to many thousands, have become wild laboratories. In them, nature strives to devise a new code. Bound and bent by conditions she would never have been able to forge on her own, a wounded Earth seeks viable combinations able to survive life-denying contamination and reclaim that which Man has, of necessity, forsaken.

And still, Mankind has yet to complete its ongoing efforts to foul the environment beyond hope of redemption, or survival.

Rivers of cars and trucks flow in endless procession across the land. Great floating vessels, heavy with lading, traverse the seas. Rail and winged containers packed with cargo, both corporeal and inanimate, are flung across the map of civilization. Gears mesh and turn. The hands of clocks circuit in ceaseless sequence, paced, patient precision marking out a cadence to which all but the most displaced in society will march.

This explicit synchronization drives the great globe-spanning Corporations—artificial, yet fully invested beings made of legal documents and money.

Like feral children, they are unconstrained id and profligate ego rampant. Unaware they are, in fact, hypothetical constructs, devoid of conscience and yet somehow like us, they will commit any act to prove they are “real” and secure their cold legacy.

The appetites of these non-human entities are insatiable, a bottomless hunger for souls and energy. Souls are cheap. Energy, as it turns out, is not, and all collateral expense and damage in the pursuit of more of it is impersonal. 

Business and its partner, Industry, strive to provide for every conceivable human need, play to an interminable demand for diversion, and cater to a spectrum of profitable personality disorders. Industry’s demand on natural resources is the price of its unparalleled contribution to human comfort, and human suffering, while unfortunate, is an acceptable component of its effluent, an unadvertised bi-product of its prodigious output. Production and waste, yin and yang, universal balance manifest.

A population that dreams of reaching the stars stacks itself, one on top of the other, in an effort to climb over its neighbor to accomplish the feat, piercing the sky, yet continuing repeatedly to miss the celestial mark.

In response, a petulant civilization consoles itself with comforts and distractions. Those living higher on the heap, closer to heaven, more richly blessed by the Gods, pose. Their grace and beauty, their acumen, their contributions to the whole of humankind, if only by their superlative example, are their legacy. Therefore, they have been rewarded more generously, not only by the very Gods themselves, but by every single individual supporting them from below. Whether by divine right, or popular acquiescence, they will reap the ripest fruits, the tenderest cuts, the most luxurious appointments, and the shiniest accoutrements. Conversely, those beneath, depending on their proximity to either the penthouses or the sewers, are welcome to whatever trickles down.

In mankind’s unrelenting hunger for energy, fast food, and cheap commodities in sturdy, disposable plastic packaging, the Great Mother has been punctured, cracked open and plumbed, scraped raw, scooped out, poisoned, pissed on, and left for dead.

Looks like our job is nearly done here. Who wants pie?

      ~      ~

Originally published in the second annual anthology issue of “Groundwaters” in 2016. I found it in an ‘Unsorted’ folder and brushed it off a bit. [TOTH and/or apologies to Dennis Miller.]  ~DRLE

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Relax Everybody

Relax, everybody. I believe there is a light at the end of this scary tunnel, beyond our tragi-comedic blip of an existence.

Somewhere near the tunnel’s end, a ragtag band of scorched Earth survivors will put up a valiant fight, through hordes of sub-human revenants, across Biblical-level apocalyptic hellscapes, to storm their way aboard the Ark.

They will arrive just as the Privileged are embarking. Met with superior force, naturally, they are cast down. The Privileged depart. Cue stirring overture.

Earth will adapt and create something with the horror and filth we’ve left in our greasy slipstream. Look at the Fukushima tomatoes. Earth will be fine.

In no time, geologically speaking, creative albeit catastrophic solutions around the globe will scour out most of the deadwood. The Cascadia subduction zone and Yellowstone caldera being merely local examples of organic cleansing resources already primed and aquiver with potential. There are so many others.

Oddly enough, Styrofoam® will turn out to be all the Earth really needed from us after all. George Carlin prophesied this years ago.

Cetaceans will develop flippers with opposable thumbs and their distant progeny will find the Ark orbiting one of the Jovian moons, mostly intact. No contact will be attempted.


But what about us?

Okay, what about us? We came. We saw. We pissed all over it and left in a huff.


If that’s not a light, what is it?

      ~      ~

Originally published in the seventh annual anthology issue of “Groundwaters” in 2021.   ~DRLE

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