Cattle bearing crosses, corralled

into satanic, dung filled stockyards.

Pigs squeal, blood spills into hot dogs.


International sweatshops work,

kinetic energy of repetitive motion

syndrome in the elbow of a slave.


Bulldoze Amazon rainforest deep

with yellow steel and the fire of gods,

spotted jaguar, run away.


Rats feed on the corpses of flood

victims, bloated and rotten,

in a hurricane’s toxic aftermath.


Smokestacks spew radioactive,

nihilistic dead zones bloom

in waters of the Gulf of Mexico.





Straight lines of green

bean plants thrive


giant sprinklers wheel

in endless circles.


Sterile soil, missing

microbes, worms.


Big Ag run off to rivers,

dead zones bloom.


Corn, potatoes, oranges,

underground suck


water from soil filled

with insects, minerals.


Basis of all human


A flower for my love,

on a Saturday morning.


Drought, dry and brown,

kills crops, children.


Modify genes to cross

seeds forever blow.


Spray with poisons, eat

with our families.


Metallic harvester come

to lay low the ripe


wheat fields of time

in sunny Autumn.



Numbers on a screen

blink in my airport eyes,

letters carved in stone.

Oil paint printed onto thin

pulp pressed from wood,

by Gutenberg for the masses

to read by candlelight.

Digital bits move, pixels spell

out the fevered dreams,

nightmares of humans.

Paper fades brown

on a shelf of old friends

and musty adventures.

Smartphone sends

an email with Shakespeare’s

sonnets attached.

Thumb drive to eye retina,

light leaps in space, refracts,

downloads to your mind.

Tweets from Tolstoy,

on a flat, plastic tablet,

plant redwood seeds.

I want to write a poetry book.

The last one, with the last

scraps of paper from a green,

Amazon jungle before

the world finally goes

aflame like a dandelion

in a campfire, like a parking

lot in Arizona, like a species

that smashed solar panels,

shredded hemp paper.

I want to be a chimp

on a branch with a quill

and a blank scroll, maybe

a dog-eared, tattered copy

of T.S. Eliot in Japanese,

surrounded by the rage

of orange African fires,

among my troupe in trees,

all playing video games,

just an idiot writing

alliterative similes.


Steve Hood is an attorney and political activist living in Bellingham, WA. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in numerous places, including: Crack the Spine, Waterhouse Review, 5-2: Crime Poetry Weekly, Marathon, Washington Free Press, and Whatcom Watch. He has published a chapbook entitled From Here To Astronomy.