By George Moore
Fair trade canisters of coffee beans the size of kettle drums make about the same sound, with a bit more base, if we empty them of the weight of our desires. We have seen the truth in the jungles, rich with steam, but is that latte or mocha? And then what will they live on if we refuse to eat their cattle. Under the right leadership, any enemy becomes a friend. They would have to shave, of course, and promise never, ever, to talk of group living again. There's fairness and fairness, after all, a difference of languages. What can you expect of a man wrapped in a shower curtain? Certainly not the truth. Such silences are part of the culture, they say. The big green leaves are hiding something security forces refuse to see, an insect hatching its eggs under their skin. If it’s part of the culture, this spice of weddings and the tough stuff of rope, then what is that skinny needle doing in the moonscape of the Senator’s daughter’s arm? If more of the world could cook, less of the busyness of its creatures would strike one as productive. Gringos are sleeping again on the steering column of the isthmus, and the rivers that once transported secrets upland are silvery with rain. The seed, the seed, the natives are crying. Here the children are bloated like snakes on a feast of mad cows, while borders waver. At the end of the day everything will be shared, and we'll buy back anything you don't use, including your sister.