The tectonic plates shift unceasingly beneath
the patter of our striving.
True to deeper dictates, the plates merge
motion into directions
each opposing the other—in a slow, mad whirl.

On the surface we chase happiness
as if it existed
in skirmishes won, in profits gained
at anyone’s expense—if we can bend
their wills and means.

What we call parties of politics
mirror the bloodlust shared
by men and rats
blind drunk on dark passion
when it suits them.

Facades of civility long nurtured
erode along a road paved
with short-term everything:
money resounds loudest when flung
after bad.

Climates of creeping entitlement,
promises made when it was easier
than not promising
come due, then overdue,
and are then exposed as shams.

New Himalayas, scaled to fit
our swollen views of self,
raise themselves among us
blocking all possible views of
shared humanity.

The solving of problems, always last
choice among us when empowered,
gain purchase and are then
discarded in orgies of name-calling
for what we dare not name.

Dreams purchased on the never-never
come due, and dilute, then,
into reappraisals
of what survival will entail
as we all buy guns.

The tipping point of a species,
this time our species,
breaks on the edges—
the conflicting, searing edges—
of the churning tectonic plates.