Truck

Michael Rothenberg

THE REVOLT OF THE DONKEYS

         for Noureddine Bazine, May 2014

Only fools

plan

for a better

world

Five minutes

a day

under

the carob tree

we speak

without

fetters

But mostly

we carry

carts

of sweet

oranges

to the market
Lean

against

the heat

and blood-

fissured

fortress wall

and weep

for our

masters

Not so much

for ourselves

The road

is long

and awkward
We stop

at the gasoline

station

for rice

and olive salad

The water

comes

from the cooler . . .

And

the American

donkey

tosses

in the back seat

and thinks of

an air-conditioned

nightmare

Which raises

the price of travel

Making

life

more difficult

for a donkey

on a third

world income

But

for scholars

who need

to be cool,
we all pay

the price

and continue

our journey

east

While

Africa

weeps

While

Mexico,

Macedonia,

Egypt,

Tunisia,

Libya

and

Syria

and

some very

specific

regions

of the USA

weep

Actually,

we bray

not weep

Grunt

not weep

Everywhere

permaculturists

and

counterculturists

Even

journalists

like you,

Nourredine,

who write

for the culture

section

of the national

news,

bray!

I will never

understand

why

we don't just

give up

our revolt

and pay

attention

to the authorities
who know

best how to

manage

our fragile

resources

Still,

together

we weep

Bray

and weep

Like

the Um Rabi'a

River

which lately

has been

running

dry

Oh,

poor donkey,

save

your tears!

There’s

nothing

we can do

about it

The Chinese

are coming

soon

to build

the future
and

donkey

meat is cheap. 

REMEMBERING THE MAJOON TRAVELER
 

Exotic poverty

and public

drunkenness
Souls

that climb

like the Atlas

Mountains

Going up

and down

freely

by themselves
We never

talk about

the gluttony

of kings

Dyed

in the wool

in the old way

There are no

books

for modern

intellectuals

Travel abroad

is difficult

And the men

still go

hand in hand

on

uneven streets

and beach

promenade

Like the old days,

they bring

mint tea

in tall glasses,

steeped

in sugar and sky

That's what

Habib told us

He says

he will take us

there

to some forgotten

butterfly

long before

the death

of Gabriel Garcia

Marquez

Or the birth

of Mohammed

Mrabet
When honey

stuck

in the teeth

of the astral

shepherd

And the spotted

goat

climbed

the argan tree

to the realm

of Jilala

and the sleepless

beggar.