Category Archives: M. Lapin

The Dow Chemical Executive Celebrates the New Year

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A Prose Poem by M. Lapin

–based on the poem, “The Colonel,” by Carolyn Forché

This is what is true. I went to the Dow Chemical executive’s house. He had a servant, a very plain-looking girl, probably from strong stock, with wide-open eyes and thin lips–the kind you cannot kiss. She brought into the room 
a tray of coffee, tea, cream and sugar. His daughter sat at the table that filled the space playing a handheld video game, his son sat near her watching the small screen. On the only other piece of furniture in the room, a long antique couch, lay a The WALL STREET JOURNAL, two cats, and an opened book faced down. The sun had left the sky and outside a piece of moon streamed light onto a small pond like steam. The executive offered me a seat at the table. That was all that was in the room: a couch and a table with eight chairs around it–no television, no shelves full of books, not even a computer. He asked his children to leave, asked the servant to bring his wife in, and then turned to me and asked if I had dinner yet. Near the doorway was an expensive box hiding an alarm system. Through the large picture window I could see bright lights go on and off throughout the yard when a deer decided to take a walk across the lawn. The deer, caught in the light, decided to stay. Suddenly two large dogs ran at it and it fled instantly into the brush and over a large fence. The executive watched the chase with amusement. We ate braised beef, good wine, vegetables he bragged came fresh from the garden. The servant brought in sour sop, mang cow, a half dozen chom choms and a large dragon fruit. None of these could be purchased at the store. I was asked about my blogs, my forums, a few other things. I, a guest in his house, invited, answered each request with tight brief sentences, asked how he had obtained all of this Vietnamese fruit. The servant cleared the table. At my question, the executive looked me intently in the face, did not give me a chance to reply, raised his hand and excused himself. He came back with a box that made noise when he placed it on the table. He opened it and took out one vial, then another, and still another. He picked each one up and placed them carefully on the table until there was nothing left in the box. At first I thought I was looking at brine, blood samples maybe, simple vertebrae in salt water, early embryos I studied in school, and then I realized each bottle did hold an embryo, an underdeveloped baby–could it be?–, deformed, in some instances unrecognizable as a human. They were like
 creatures from a H. G. Wells’ Doctor Moreau. How else can I describe them? The executive lifted one vial of an embryo beyond deformity, shook it in our faces, dropped it back onto the table where we watched it roll until another vial stopped it. I want this noise stopped, he said. As 
for compensation or anything else, no, tell your group they can fuck themselves. He paused. I have the cause for this in this house. I can show you if you wish. Forty years I’ve collected these abortions, these imploding genes. Then he smiled. Something for your blog, no? the executive’s wife asked. Her husband laughed and placed the vials carelessly back in the box and the servant came into the room and removed it.

The Monsanto Executive Celebrates Christmas

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A poem by M. Lapin

–based on the poem, “The Colonel,” by Carolyn Forché

This is what is true. I did go to the Monsanto executive’s house. He had a servant, tall and strong, with wide-open eyes and exquisite posture. She brought in 
a tray of coffee, tea, cream and sugar. His daughter sat with her back to us playing a handheld video game, his son sat near her watching the small screen. The WALL STREET JOURNAL, two cats, and an opened book lay face down next to him. The sun had left the sky and outside a piece of moon streamed light onto the small pond near the house. He offered me a seat and I noticed right away there was no television in the room, no shelves full of books, not even a computer. He asked his children to leave, asked the servant to bring his wife in, and then turned to me and asked if I had had dinner yet. Near the doorway was an expensive box hiding an alarm system. Through the large picture window I could see bright lights go on and off throughout the yard when a deer decided to take a walk across the lawn. I heard the bark of a few dogs. The deer, caught in the light, decided to stay. It looked towards the barking sounds, looked towards the light, then bent its head to eat. We had
 dinner, braised beef, good wine, vegetables he bragged fresh from the garden. The servant brought in sour sop, mang cow, and other fruits you cannot get at the store. I was asked about my blogs, my forums, a few other things. I, a guest in his house, invited, answered each request with tight brief sentences. The servant cleared the table. His wife asked why I felt the way I did. The executive looked me intently in the face, did not give me a chance to reply, raised his hand and excused himself. He came back with a box that made noise when he placed it on the table. He opened it and took out one bottle, then another, and still another. He picked each bottle up and placed it carefully on the table until there was nothing left in the box. At first I thought I was looking at oxen parts in brine, pig parts maybe in salt water, embryos I studied in school, but then I realized each bottle held a child, a baby, deformed, in some instances unrecognizable as a human. They were like creatures from a H. G. Wells’ Doctor Moreau. How else can I describe them? Experiments with dioxins and genes in Monsanto’s labs? The executive opened one bottle and took the deformed baby into his hands, shook it in our faces, dropped it back into its bottle and we watched in silence as it sunk back to the bottom. I want this noise stopped, he said. As 
for compensation or anything else, tell your group to fuck themselves. He paused. I have the cause for this in this house. I can show you if you wish. Forty years and I’m still collecting these Vietnamese and American monsters. Then he smiled. Something for your blog, no? the executive’s wife asked, her husband laughed and the servant came into the room, placed everything back into the box and removed it from the room.

The Monsanto Executive

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A poem by M. Lapin

–based on the poem, “The Colonel,” by Carolyn Forché

This is what is true. I did go to the Monsanto executive’s house. He had a servant, tall and strong, with wide-open eyes and exquisite posture. She brought in 
a tray of coffee, tea, cream and sugar. His daughter sat with her back to us playing a handheld video game, his son sat near her watching the small screen. The WALL STREET JOURNAL, two cats, and an opened book lay face down next to him. The sun had left the sky and outside a piece of moon streamed light onto the small pond near the house. He offered me a seat and I noticed right away there was no television in the room, no shelves full of books, not even a computer. He asked his children to leave, asked the servant to bring his wife in, and then turned to me and asked if I had had dinner yet. Near the doorway was an expensive box hiding an alarm system. Through the large picture window I could see bright lights go on and off throughout the yard when a deer decided to take a walk across the lawn. I heard the bark of a few dogs. The deer, caught in the light, decided to stay. It looked towards the barking sounds, looked towards the light, then bent its head to eat. We had
 dinner, braised beef, good wine, vegetables he bragged fresh from the garden. The servant brought in sour sop, mang cow, and other fruits you cannot get at the store. I was asked about my blogs, my forums, a few other things. I, a guest in his house, invited, answered each request with tight brief sentences. The servant cleared the table. His wife asked why I felt the way I did. The executive looked me intently in the face, did not give me a chance to reply, raised his hand and excused himself. He came back with a box that made noise when he placed it on the table. He opened it and took out one bottle, then another, and still another. He picked each bottle up and placed it carefully on the table until there was nothing left in the box. At first I thought I was looking at oxen parts in brine, pig parts maybe in salt water, embryos I studied in school, but then I realized each bottle held a child, a baby, deformed, in some instances unrecognizable as a human. They were like creatures from a H. G. Wells’ Doctor Moreau. How else can I describe them? Experiments with dioxins and genes in Monsanto’s labs? The executive opened one bottle and took the deformed baby into his hands, shook it in our faces, dropped it back into its bottle and we watched in silence as it sunk back to the bottom. I want this noise stopped, he said. As 
for compensation or anything else, tell your group to fuck themselves. He paused. I have the cause for this in this house. I can show you if you wish. Forty years and I’m still collecting these Vietnamese and American monsters. Then he smiled. Something for your blog, no? the executive’s wife asked, her husband laughed and the servant came into the room, placed everything back into the box and removed it from the room.

The Dow Chemical Executive

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A Prose Poem by M. Lapin

–based on the poem, “The Colonel,” by Carolyn Forché

This is what is true. I went to the Dow Chemical executive’s house. He had a servant, a very plain-looking girl, probably from strong stock, with wide-open eyes and thin lips–the kind you cannot kiss. She brought into the room 
a tray of coffee, tea, cream and sugar. His daughter sat at the table that filled the space playing a handheld video game, his son sat near her watching the small screen. On the only other piece of furniture in the room, a long antique couch, lay a The WALL STREET JOURNAL, two cats, and an opened book faced down. The sun had left the sky and outside a piece of moon streamed light onto a small pond like steam. The executive offered me a seat at the table. That was all that was in the room: a couch and a table with eight chairs around it–no television, no shelves full of books, not even a computer. He asked his children to leave, asked the servant to bring his wife in, and then turned to me and asked if I had dinner yet. Near the doorway was an expensive box hiding an alarm system. Through the large picture window I could see bright lights go on and off throughout the yard when a deer decided to take a walk across the lawn. The deer, caught in the light, decided to stay. Suddenly two large dogs ran at it and it fled instantly into the brush and over a large fence. The executive watched the chase with amusement. We ate braised beef, good wine, vegetables he bragged came fresh from the garden. The servant brought in sour sop, mang cow, a half dozen chom choms and a large dragon fruit. None of these could be purchased at the store. I was asked about my blogs, my forums, a few other things. I, a guest in his house, invited, answered each request with tight brief sentences, asked how he had obtained all of this Vietnamese fruit. The servant cleared the table. At my question, the executive looked me intently in the face, did not give me a chance to reply, raised his hand and excused himself. He came back with a box that made noise when he placed it on the table. He opened it and took out one vial, then another, and still another. He picked each one up and placed them carefully on the table until there was nothing left in the box. At first I thought I was looking at brine, blood samples maybe, simple vertebrae in salt water, early embryos I studied in school, and then I realized each bottle did hold an embryo, an underdeveloped baby–could it be?–, deformed, in some instances unrecognizable as a human. They were like
 creatures from a H. G. Wells’ Doctor Moreau. How else can I describe them? The executive lifted one vial of an embryo beyond deformity, shook it in our faces, dropped it back onto the table where we watched it roll until another vial stopped it. I want this noise stopped, he said. As 
for compensation or anything else, no, tell your group they can fuck themselves. He paused. I have the cause for this in this house. I can show you if you wish. Forty years I’ve collected these abortions, these imploding genes. Then he smiled. Something for your blog, no? the executive’s wife asked. Her husband laughed and placed the vials carelessly back in the box and the servant came into the room and removed it.

A Monsanto/Dow Chemical Memorial Day

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A Poem by M. Lapin

and the sun comes up with the hues of Agent Orange,
Monsanto gray–fiery like the breath of the devil.
These nurses, these chaplains, these soldiers…
sprayed down the great clouds of poison on the forest
and let it enter into themselves–generation after generation,
the Monsanto children, the Dow Chemical children,
the Chiari Zipperheads, the mutations and dead babies–
and nowhere does the blue sky peek through,
nowhere is there a cloud of comfort, nowhere is…
and when the moon falls over this day and night cools,
the victims of Agent Orange–all of them who made it home
only to die, all of them who were born with altered DNA,
all of them who hide in glass bottles in repositories,
I don’t know–the fog grows in thickness over all of us.

The Speech Monsanto’s CEO Wants to Make

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A Poem by M. Lapin.

The scar faced boy and the scar faced man,
Skin dripping rash and disorder,
Walk through the Monsanto field
And can’t help but taste the acid in the haze,
The fizz of fresh chemical and treated crop.

One day there will be an easier route,
But that day is not today nor will it be tomorrow

Sorry. This is what we do, this is how we injure,
This is how we create a better world
For everyone else—just not you two
Walking the path through the field
To school, to marketplace, to jobs.

The Dow Chemical Executive

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A Poem by M. Lapin

–based on the poem, “The Colonel.” by  Carolyn Forché

This is what is true. I went to the Dow Chemical executive’s house. He had a servant, a very plain-looking girl, probably from strong stock, with wide-open eyes and thin lips–the kind you cannot kiss. She brought into the room 
a tray of coffee, tea, cream and sugar. His daughter sat at the table that filled the space playing a handheld video game, his son sat near her watching the small screen. On the only other piece of furniture in the room, a long antique couch, lay a The WALL STREET JOURNAL, two cats, and an opened book faced down. The sun had left the sky and outside a piece of moon streamed light onto a small pond like steam. The executive offered me a seat at the table. That was all that was in the room: a couch and a table with eight chairs around it–no television, no shelves full of books, not even a computer. He asked his children to leave, asked the servant to bring his wife in, and then turned to me and asked if I had dinner yet. Near the doorway was an expensive box hiding an alarm system. Through the large picture window I could see bright lights go on and off throughout the yard when a deer decided to take a walk across the lawn. The deer, caught in the light, decided to stay. Suddenly two large dogs ran at it and it fled instantly into the brush and over a large fence. The executive watched the chase with amusement. We ate braised beef, good wine, vegetables he bragged came fresh from the garden. The servant brought in sour sop, mang cow, a half dozen chom choms and a large dragon fruit. None of these could be purchased at the store. I was asked about my blogs, my forums, a few other things. I, a guest in his house, invited, answered each request with tight brief sentences, asked how he had obtained all of this Vietnamese fruit. The servant cleared the table. At my question, the executive looked me intently in the face, did not give me a chance to reply, raised his hand and excused himself. He came back with a box that made noise when he placed it on the table. He opened it and took out one vial, then another, and still another. He picked each one up and placed them carefully on the table until there was nothing left in the box. At first I thought I was looking at brine, blood samples maybe, simple vertebrae in salt water, early embryos I studied in school, and then I realized each bottle did hold an embryo, an underdeveloped baby–could it be?–, deformed, in some instances unrecognizable as a human. They were like
 creatures from a H. G. Wells’ Doctor Moreau. How else can I describe them? The executive lifted one vial of an embryo beyond deformity, shook it in our faces, dropped it back onto the table where we watched it roll until another vial stopped it. I want this noise stopped, he said. As 
for compensation or anything else, no, tell your group they can fuck themselves. He paused. I have the cause for this in this house. I can show you if you wish. Forty years I’ve collected these abortions, these imploding genes. Then he smiled. Something for your blog, no?  the executive’s wife asked. Her husband laughed and placed the vials carelessly back in the box and the servant came into the room and removed it. 

The Monsanto Executive

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A poem by M. Lapin

–based on the poem, “The Colonel,”  by Carolyn Forché

This is what is true. I did go to the Monsanto executive’s house. He had a servant, tall and strong, with wide-open eyes and exquisite posture.  She brought in 
a tray of coffee, tea, cream and sugar. His daughter sat with her back to us playing a handheld video game, his son sat near her watching the small screen. The WALL STREET JOURNAL, two cats, and an opened book lay face down next to him. The sun had left the sky and outside a piece of moon streamed light onto the small pond near the house. He offered me a seat and I noticed right away there was no television in the room, no shelves full of books, not even a computer. He asked his children to leave, asked the servant to bring his wife in, and then turned to me and asked if I had had dinner yet. Near the doorway was an expensive box hiding an alarm system. Through the large picture window I could see bright lights go on and off throughout the yard when a deer decided to take a walk across the lawn. I heard the bark of a few dogs. The deer, caught in the light, decided to stay. It looked towards the barking sounds, looked towards the light, then bent its head to eat. We had
 dinner, braised beef, good wine, vegetables he bragged fresh from the garden. The servant brought in sour sop, mang cow, and other fruits you cannot get at the store. I was asked about my blogs, my forums, a few other things. I, a guest in his house, invited, answered each request with tight brief sentences. The servant cleared the table. His wife asked why I felt the way I did. The executive looked me intently in the face, did not give me a chance to reply, raised his hand and excused himself. He came back with a box that made noise when he placed it on the table. He opened it and took out one bottle, then another, and still another. He picked each bottle up and placed it carefully on the table until there was nothing left in the box. At first I thought I was looking at oxen parts in brine, pig parts maybe in salt water, embryos I studied in school, but then I realized each bottle held a child, a baby, deformed, in some instances unrecognizable as a human. They were like
 creatures from a H. G. Wells’ Doctor Moreau. How else can I describe them? Experiments with dioxins and genes in Monsanto’s labs?  The executive opened one bottle and took the deformed baby into his hands, shook it in our faces, dropped it back into its bottle and we watched in silence as it sunk back to the bottom. I want this noise stopped, he said. As 
for compensation or anything else, tell your group to fuck themselves. He paused. I have the cause for this in this house. I can show you if you wish. Forty years and I’m still collecting these Vietnamese and American monsters. Then he smiled. Something for your blog, no?  the executive’s wife asked, her husband laughed and the servant came into the room, placed everything back into the box and removed it from the room.