Transmission…
August 21st, 2016
In the inbox today from an activist cohort, a poem by Thomas Lux:
Cucumber Fields Crossed by High Tension Wires
The high-tension spires spike the sky
beneath which boys bend
to pick from prickly vines
the deep-sopped fruit, the rind’s green
a green sunk
in green. They part the plants’ leaves,
reach into the nest,
and pull out mother, father, fat Uncle Phil.
The smaller yellow-green children stay,
for now. The fruit goes
in baskets by the side of the row,
every thirty feet or so. By these bushels
the boys get paid, in cash,
at day’s end, this summer
of the last days of the empire
that will become known as
the past, adios, then,
the ragged-edged beautiful blink.
What surprises me is when someone notices transmission, and in this case, Lux is jarred enough to think and write about it. It’s such a common part of our landscape that most people don’t notice it… that is, most people don’t notice it until they’re affected, and suddenly wake up to the reality of transmission, criss-crossing our country with its insidious web, noticing that it’s EVERYWHERE! Once your eyes are opened to transmission, it’s impossible to disregard.