avocado groves

The new world will not be won by soldiers.
It will not be led by anyone who has written a book on the subject,

and will not have a 5, 10 or 20 year plan. It will not be led at all.



It will be built, by small hands that do not know what they are building. 
Hands that build a house because they need somewhere to sleep. 
Hands with bitten nails and alligator skin, 


that do not ask for bread, but take it,

and flip you their middle finger.

Hands that plant avocado trees knowing they will take 50 years to fruit,

who can taste the cream
and feel the pits
sliding smooth in their grandchildren’s mouths.



All futures are written in blood,
but the new world’s will be written by the cracked and blistered feet of survivors, not the lifeblood of martyrs.

Blood rich in iron, calcium, magnesium and nitrogen,
that we feed to the budding avocado groves we’ve planted.



The new world will be written counter-clockwise around the campfire, always to be continued tomorrow evening.

It will not “rise like a phoenix from the fires of Revolution,” but flee choking from the wildfires of California

and the smogs of Hong Kong,
rise gasping from the flood waters of Carolina, New Orleans, the Phillipines.

We will not build it because we decide to,
but because we have no other option.

The new world will be a conspiracy
 Between us and the fungi,

the fish and the dandelions, the deer and the elm trees.


Its first language will not be human.



The new world will be carried to each new generation in lullabies and fairy tales, science fiction and fantasy.


It has already begun.



We awake each morning with our children’s longing in our ears, and sleep each night sheltered by the sukkah of their wild dreams.