No more reliable lemon drops in London,
The lemon trees—all gone.
Next will be ginger ale,
The frail root rotted.
The lime trees? Shot.
Some onion-paper men all in a dither
Over freeze-dried pastries preserving
The flavor of sweet cream and butter.
Whoever they are who dig up
Our future cities find feathers
At the museum.

—Michael Dickel
© poem and cover art, 1994

From: Breakfast at the End of Capitalism by Locofo Chaps (Chicago, 2018) — download free PDF here
First published in Poems for a Livable Planet. Fall (1994). p. 3



  1. That’s a sound poem, a bit of how lemonade is made from lemons or shall I say lemmings, since it seems in so-called democracies, these days, the People follow each other over the cliff being led by their leaders? In American, they are serving orange lemonade. It has taken all the fight out of the natives. Eventually, they can only afford bread and water.

    Liked by 2 people

  2. glory be

    a host of horrors greet us each day
    multitudes of madnesses
    economies of scale sing hymns
    ailing rotting-on-the-inside riffraff
    make holy homemade videos
    that go virulently viral in stupefying style
    scores bursting at the seams about to crack

    en masse we raise voices
    This! Life! is astonishing
    life on earth
    with its variegations in virtue
    imperfections impressive in their number
    it is good nevertheless this creation

    find a statue or painting of god
    that’s not a little bit broken
    let alone one of us humans

    ever-morphing clouds
    roll across the storm sky
    to release, in their fractures,
    photon beams
    across swarming humanity’s home
    until Hallelujah! a stunning sunset show

    Liked by 3 people

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