National Poetry Month: Climate Change

Kayaking along Market Street

The waters are rising

Inundating islands

occupied by the innocent

Surging over cities seething

with the unrepentant

Kayaking along Market Street

enjoying the novelty

Until Charleston became a swamp
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According to our government's Fourth National Climate Assessment Report, the social, economic, and environmental systems along the coasts are being affected by climate change. Threats from sea level rise (SLR) are exacerbated by dynamic processes such as high tide and storm surge flooding, erosion, waves and their effects, saltwater intrusion into coastal aquifers and elevated groundwater table, local rainfall, river runoff, increasing water and surface air temperature, and ocean acidification.

Although storms, floods, and erosion have always been hazards, in combination with rising sea levels they now threaten approximately $1 trillion in national wealth held in coastal real estate and the continued viability of coastal communities that depend on coastal water, land, and other resources for economic health and cultural integrity. The effects of the coastal risks posed by a changing climate already are and will continue to be experienced in both intersecting and distinct ways, and coastal areas are already beginning to take actions to address and ameliorate these risks. Charleston is one such city. Others are ignoring them, or even prohibiting their mention in city planning documents.

Sweetland, by Michael Crummey

The steel mill was a city unto itself. Massive coke ovens, storage tanks and elevators, engine rooms, stock houses the size of city churches, miles of train tracks and gas lines and elevated piping that criss-crossed the blackened acres. Cooling stations, smoke and creosote and slag, the molten glow of the pour-offs at the open hearths like some evangelical's vision of hell. Everything was in motion, cranes and railcars, conveyor belts shifting ore pellets to the blast furnaces, coal cars shuttling from the battery to the ovens, sheets of heated strip steel rolling through rotating cylinders. All of it seemed to be moving at cross purposes and the unremitting noise of the place was a physical thing, hammering against them. The air heated and condensed, packed with dust and steam and a nauseating chemical sweat. Men darting among the machinery like rats, their faces grimed with soot.

This is Michael Crummey's vivid description of the mill that his protagonist, Moses Sweetland, works in with his friend, Duke Fewer, when the two young men go to Hamilton, Ontario, Canada, to find work. In Crummey's novel, 'Sweetland,' Moses and his friend can barely eke out a subsistence existence where they live on the island by the same name, Sweetland, in Newfoundland. Every other inhabitant (90 in all) of the small town is in the same boat (no pun intended), as a result of the moratorium on cod fishing imposed by the Canadian government in 1992. The moratorium was forced by over fishing and the resulting collapse of the once-plentiful fish stock.

Crummey's writing has been described in glowing terms, but as "spare lyricism" (the St John's Telegram). I guess I don't know what spare means in this sense. I see his descriptions of place, as in the steel mill above, as rich, fulsome (in the best sense), and evocative. Crummey is an award-winning poet, and his prose employs a variety of poetic devices, such as the parataxis demonstrated in the steel mill paragraph. He's able to do this without getting caught at it. One simply stops reading and exclaims, 'What a wonderful description,' or 'How well put,' or just says nothing and simply sits back and imagines being there, under a threatening sky, "a scudding wind kicking a lop on the water high enough to spit over the gunwale...soaked with ocean spray...face rimed with salt."

Crummey's story is about the disappearance of a way of life and it reflects, as any good story does, reality for Newfoundland's tiny coastal communities of fishermen and their kin. It revolves around the resettlement program implemented by the government of Canada. Families were offered a considerable amount of money to resettle to designated "growth areas." The sticking point in Crummey's novel was that all families had to agree (in actuality, the stipulation was that 80 to 90 percent of families had to agree). The government made it clear that once resettlement was completed, services would be cut off. In 'Sweetland,' we find the one hold out, Moses Sweetland, stranded in Chance Cove after he agrees to leave, then disappears as the government ferry is loaded.

Why does Moses Sweetland stubbornly refuse to leave the hardscrabble existence that he and others in the community endure? Perhaps it's because of the experience he had working in the steel mill, an experience that scarred him for life, physically and emotionally. Perhaps it's because who is, who he sees himself as being, is so tightly wound up with the concept of place that leaving is simply inconceivable. He is as much rooted to the land as the gnarled and tangled stands of stunted spruce and balsam fir -- the tuckamore -- anchored to the rock, weathered into swept-back, sculptural shapes by harsh coastal growing conditions.

Sweetland will not leave the island, but the island will leave him. Crummey doesn't lecture about climate change. He simply tells his story, and in his story, dead, emaciated birds wash up on shore. "Dozens of bullbirds dead in the water, the corpses like tiny bouys off their moorings and drifting past the breakwater...hundreds more of them on the surface beyond the breakwater, floating dead. The birds so delicately calibrated they'd starved within hours of each other, the organs shutting down one at a time." Sweetland realizes that these birds, these fish, these places are, "relics of another time and on their way out."

At some primal level, Sweetland understands that he too, is a relic. That, "There was a new world being built around him." Listening to the Fisheries Broadcast, he heard about, "apocalyptic weather, rising sea levels, alterations in the seasons, in ocean temperatures. Fish migrating north in search of colder water and the dovekies lost in the landscape they were made for. The generations of instinct they'd relied on to survive here suddenly useless."

In the end, I was left sad by the story. Sad for the plight of the people. Sad for the suffering. Their diminishment. Sad to realize that for many, perhaps most, their resettlement will not bring happiness, but simply another sort of suffering by virtue of an alienation that an indoor toilet can't assuage. Sad for the loss of a way of life. But I realize, as well, that I feel as if I've come to know these people, and I will miss them.

Mission to Mars

The world is suffering dire consequences as a result of global warming. The United States is in a terrible depression. A ‘new dust bowl’ has swept across the Midwest. The West is in the midst of a Hundred Year drought. The Southeast is being pummeled by monsoon-like rains. Agriculture across the nation has been devastated. Whole regions of the nation have had to relocate as a result of coastal flooding, regional drought, and desertification.

The rest of the world is in even worse shape. Sub-Saharan African migrants trying desperately to get into Europe are now being shot out of the water by Italian gun boats. South East Asian migrants trying to get into Australia, Thailand, and other countries that might provide a means of survival are also meeting armed resistance. Migrants are trying to come into the U.S. from the traditional countries south of the border, but also from island nations on both the Pacific and Atlantic coasts. The government has hired mercenaries to keep them out, with ‘whatever means’ are necessary.

Scientists are predicting ‘end of the world’ scenarios in a ‘we told you so’ rant. People are starting to believe the scientists, despite a concerted disinformation campaign by the administration.

A revolution appears to be brewing. Upwards of a hundred and fifty well-armed militias across the nation (plus a multitude of piss-ant also-rans) have gathered their brethren. The only thing stopping them from outright revolt is their inability to agree on who’s in charge.

Desperate for some ray of hope and distraction, the administration decides to promote the fiction that the U.S. has launched a team of astronauts to land on Mars and prepare for the possible relocation there of the U.S. population. The people that are to produce this elaborate hoax feel that it can be pulled off, because in this future dystopia, people, including the administration, have come to believe that the moon landing was a hoax. “If they could do it then, with the technology they had, imagine how much better we can make it look,” the Director of Total Information Transparency, David Hamilton Koch VI, tells the president, John Galt Paul.

Now, there’s a man who up to now has been a pain in the ass for the administrations that have come along since big money succeeded in getting a permanent Republican president and majority in both houses of congress elected, because he’s continued to insist that the climate science is right -- fossil fuel CO2 emissions are the culprit in global warming -- and the moon landing was real, among other ‘leftist conspiracy theory’s’ he’s promulgated.

The administration realizes the old curmudgeon, Ernest ‘Ernie’ Hemingway Codfelter,  can be useful to their plan by being proven right about the moon landing. A scheme is hatched to have Codfelter ‘discover’ new evidence of the landing’s authenticity. The administration will admit he’s right -- the moon landing was real (they’ll blame past administrations going way back for not listening to the old fart) -- and they’ll announce the plan to land astronauts on Mars.

It turns out, however, that Codfelter isn’t the gullible dupe they take him for, and he’ll switch his attention from the moon landing to the Mars mission in the time it takes Koch VI to say, “What the fuck!”

Codfelter graduated with high honors from Caltech, but what started as a promising career in astrophysics was derailed by post graduate work in getting stoned, complicated by borderline bipolar disorder. He ended up working as a blackjack croupier in Las Vegas. In his spare time, of which he had plenty, he wrote a blog detailing the conspiracy theory du jour, much of which dealt with the disinformation campaign that led up to the government outlawing research into climate change, and prohibiting NASA, NOAA, the EPA, and other government agencies from using the terms climate change, global warming, greenhouse gases, drought (‘dry’ was substituted), and hurricane or tornado (‘windy’ was substituted for both).

A major dis-disinformation campaign is undertaken, led by TIT, to convince the public that the moon landing in 1969 was real. The Heartland Institute, The Heritage Foundation, The American Enterprise Institute, and The American Exceptionalism Policy Program, among other conservative ‘think tanks’ are recruited to create a ‘grassroots’ movement to validate the 1969 moon landing, and to generate support for a mission to Mars.

Koch VI starts making the rounds of TV ‘news’ programs to promote the Mars mission. “If they could do it way back then with their technology, there’s no reason we shouldn’t be able to do it,” Koch VI tells Sean Patrick Hannity IV, host of the TV program, ‘Fox the Nation.’

A contest is initiated to name the mission and the spaceship that will carry the intrepid astronauts aloft. The winner will be ensured a seat on the first follow-on flight to Mars. Codfelter’s submittal is ________ and __________.

Carefully selected members of the President’s Cabinet, the NASA Administrator, and key congressional leaders are brought to Camp David to discuss the planned Mars mission. Only the NASA Administrator, Varley Broadwidth, is hesitant to sign on to the ruse. “NASA doesn’t have the funding for such a complex mission Mr. President,” he says.

“It’s a fake mission, Varley,” the President says.

“Still,” Broadwidth says. “The NASA budget should look as though it has the appropriate funds for such a mission.”

Before the President can respond, Broadwidth goes on, “And if the budget is raised to accommodate the mission, our budget would make us one of the largest organizations in the government and therefore my pension should be raised accordingly.”

The President just stares at Broadwidth for a minute or so before saying, “Okay, I’ll have  Appropriations raise your pension concurrent with the public announcement. However, you have to agree to stay on as NASA Administrator until the first landing of settlers on Mars.”

“Of course, Mr. President,” Broadwidth says, beaming.

The administration doesn’t trust Hollywood to produce the ‘mission record,’ because, as President JG Paul says, “Those cocaine-addled pansies will blab about the fact it’s fiction.” So Koch VI initiates a no-bid contract with Reynolds-Lorillard Studios (RLS), the media arm of the multinational tobacco company of the same name, to produce the record of the Mars mission. Reynolds-Lorillard’s advertising campaign, under relaxed regulations, has largely been responsible for the renaissance in smoking that’s occurred since Republicans have come to dominate the political landscape. The subsidies provided to the industry by congress also helped.

In preparation for production, Koch VI clears RLS for access to Area 51, where they’ll set up the sets and film the mission to Mars. Koch VI’s biggest problem is finding a director for the production. He needs someone skilled in making convincing films with implausible plot lines, whom he can trust to keep his mouth shut about the ruse. Damn, I wish Stanley Kubrick were still alive, Koch VI thinks. He finally decides on Baxter Wallace, known for his films, Finding Jesus at Your Door, Heaven is for Real VI, Potato Head Mary, and A Meeting at the Gates. Wallace readily agrees after being assured he’ll have a guaranteed seat of the first spaceship that actually travels to Mars, should that ever occur. “I have faith it will,” Wallace proclaims. “I’ll have my agent meet with your people to discuss my remuneration requirements.”

Everything seems to be going swimmingly until TIT staff report that old Codfelter is sitting on the new evidence of the moon landing. Surveillance video and phone taps show that Codfelter has discussed the evidence in very general terms with several associates, i.e., poker playing buddies. He indicates that he has more important things to ponder than the moon landing. “Old news,” he says. “Mars is the new moon.”

Everything turns to shit when China, convinced the U.S. is about to launch the Mars settlement mission, invades America and attempts to take possession of the spaceship. They end up confronting the RLS Mars mission production team at Area 51. Told that the whole thing was a fraud, they line up the RLS bastards and shoot them. Then they stand around smoking and discussing what the hell to do with the United States.

2012

Chapter 5: What would Roemer want, besides the Presidency, that is?
[Go to beginning]

Buddy Roemer said nothing. Karl Rove was staring at him, willing him to react to Rove’s statement about a viable third party candidate ‘gestating.’ Roemer considered it an unfortunate metaphor.

“We think someone could run with the Occupy Wall Street movement,” Rove finally said. You know, say all the things the protesters want to hear, form a legitimate party, coordinate with a PAC to--”

“That’s illegal,” Roemer said, interrupting Rove.

“Well, you know, not exactly coordinate, but...”

“Uh huh,” Roemer said.

“Look Buddy, I have some serious money behind this idea. We just need the right guy out front. Not someone like Nader. He’s all hat and no cattle. Know what I mean?” Rove loved using cowboy idioms, which he’d picked up from the Texas crowd.

“Uh huh,” Roemer said. Spit it out Karl, Roemer thought.

“Well, who do you think could do it?”

Roemer said nothing.

“Dennis Kucinich? You know we’re redistricting him right out of a job.” Say something, you fuck!

Roemer shook his head. “He may be far out there on some things, like that ‘Department of Peace’ idea, but he’d see right through your scheme.”

“How about Russ Feingold? He’s dying to get back in the mix. Even considered a run for the Presidency.”

“Maybe,” Roemer said, sounding doubtful.

“Well, Buddy, give me a name,” Rove said, sounding exasperated.

“What’s your pitch to the guy going be, Karl? I mean, how to you get someone to go through all that hardship; all the scrutiny, all the speeches and fund raising, recruiting volunteers. All with malice aforethought?”

“Malice aforethought?” said Rove.

“Knowing it’s a sham. A scheme to draw votes away from Obama.”

Rove thought about this. What would Roemer want, besides the Presidency, that is? “What do you think we ought to offer, Buddy?”

I wonder if the shit is recording this, thought Roemer. “I’ll tell you what, Karl. Let me think about this over the holiday weekend and I’ll get back to you on Monday. You think about how you’re going to make this worthwhile for your spoiler, okay?"

Roemer saw that Rove was about to say something, and preempted whatever it was. "I mean, it’s Thanksgiving, Karl. Let’s go home and give thanks that you and I will be dead before future generations are questioning the legitimacy of our birth because we ignored global warming.”

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

2012

Chapter 4: Happy Thanksgiving
[Go to beginning]

Buddy Roemer spotted Karl Rove wandering around the pavilion of the Science Center looking lost. Karl was hard to miss. He was the only person wearing a trench coat and carrying a battered leather briefcase. Roemer smiled. Rove, with his somewhat shabby raincoat and briefcase, reminded him of Columbo, the TV detective. Rove didn’t have Columbo’s funky charm, but he was shrewd as hell and as TV criminals had learned with Columbo, it was foolish to underestimate him.

Rove spotted Roemer standing by the entrance to an exhibit bordered by photos of New Hampshire autumns. A sign over the entrance said, ‘Seasons of Change.’ Rove changed the hand in which he carried his briefcase and reached out and shook Roemer’s hand. “Hey, Buddy. How’r ya doing?”

“Karl, it’s awfully nice to see you. How are you?" And what's so damned urgent? Roemer wondered. "Happy Thanksgiving.”

“I’m hitting my stride, Buddy. Hitting my stride.” Rove put his hand on Roemer’s back. “Where can we sit down and talk? I’ve gotta get some input from you on the--.”

“Walk with me, Karl. I want to show you something. Then we can talk. You’ve got a little time, don’t you?”

Rove looked at his watch, and then wished he hadn’t. He wanted Roemer to feel as though he had his undivided attention. “You bet, Buddy. Let’s git’r done!”

The next half hour was agony for Rove. Roemer led him through the Seasons of Change exhibit supplementing the posters with a running commentary on how global warming was going to impact New England. What the fuck!

Karl forced himself to appear interested as Roemer explained that New England’s fall foliage would be less brilliant. “Maple, beech, and birch trees can’t abide the warmer temperatures and will move north, you see,” Roemer said, pointing a collage of brilliant fall foliage.

Rove’s smile made him look slightly bilious. “Hmm,” he murmured.

“You know what fall tourism contributes to the New England economy, Karl?” Roemer asked.

Rove recognized a rhetorical question when he heard one and just raised his eyebrows in response.

“Tourism employs 250,000 New Englanders and another 106,000 upstate New Yorkers, paying total wages of greater than $6 billion,” Roemer said.

Rove wanted to kill himself. Maybe this had been a mistake.

“As our fall foliage retreats, tourism is expected to decline. The economic impact will be felt, Karl. And in more ways than one.”

Rove felt helpless as Roemer went on with evangelical zeal to cover the effects of climate change on cranberries, blueberries, and native Concord grapes; described how invasive pests and plants threatened to destroy wildlife habitats and take over cropland; and how maple sugar and paper industry jobs would be lost as maple trees and spruce and fir forests moved out of New England.

Finally, Rove couldn’t stand it and, taking Roemer by the elbow, said, “This is fascinating Buddy, but truth is, I’ve gotta catch a plane. I really want to run something by you that I think you’ll find pretty damned interesting, too.”

Roemer finally shut up and led Rove to a small, sparsely populated snack bar in an alcove of the Science Center, where they got a piece of pie and a cup of coffee, and found a booth near the back.

Rove launched right into his pitch before Roemer had a chance to lecture him on the environmental impacts of acid rain, or some damned nonsense. “Buddy, what I’m about to tell you is extremely sensitive and strictly confidential. There are only three people who know about this, and I’m one of ‘em.”

Roemer took a bite of his pie and studied Rove. What has he got up his sleeve?

“I don’t have to tell you that we have a hard row to hoe in the 2012 presidential election,” Rove said. We don’t have our candidate yet, but whoever it is will face an uphill battle against an incumbent president. Always the case.” Rove said, as he took a bite of his pie.

“Not for Clinton in ’92,” Roemer said, just to irritate Rove, who pretended to ignore the comment.

“We’re going to have to work hard to get a Republican elected, Buddy, and hard work alone may not be enough.” Rove winked at Roemer. “We can hope that the Democrats shoot themselves in the foot the way did in 2000, but I don’t see that happening on its own.”

“On its own?” Roemer said.

“I’m thinking we encourage a third party candidate, Buddy.

“You mean Ralph Nader?” Roemer said, and laughed.

“Hell no!” Rove said. “He pulled in less than a million votes in ’08.” Rove pushed his empty pie plate off to the side. “We need somebody who’ll take a significant block of votes away from Obama.”

“There isn’t a viable third party candidate that can do that, Karl,” Roemer said.

“There’s one in gestation,” Rove said, studying Roemer to see if he’d figure it out.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.