Matt Sedillo


Matt Sedillo is an LA based poet.

Storm warnings

When it finally
All goes down
When the titanic
Finally sinks
When there is nowhere
Left to hide the money 
When the alps finally melt
When Switzerland
Becomes a barren desert
And the Caymans
Are buried
Miles below
Sea level
The fortune five hundred
Will set up
Tax shelters
On the moon 

A storm is brewing
From the winds of Fukushima
From the ash of three mile island
From criminal negligence
From the killing plunder 
You can hear the distant thunder
Strip the earth to feed industry
Rip from the country
To please the city
Squeeze the city
To engorge the capital
Make weapons capable
Of destroying the planet
Turn profit
From monstrous tankers
Make poison the ocean
Factories that darken the skies
And a storm is brewing
From the ghosts of Bhopal
From the graveyard of Exxon Valdes
From the soot that is rising  
Out of an industrial revolution
A commercial revolution
A Chevy revolution
Inviting you to
Join the mad chorus  
As the rubber hits the road
From the fall
Of the rain forest
Who would live
In natural rhythm
That would raise children
To the tune
Of a rain drop’s
The savagery
Modern man
Is capable of
Let them know
That a storm is a comin
That a hard acid rain is going to fall
From the Yellow River
To the Niger Delta
To the Cuyahoga
From the holes
In the o zone
Over New Delhi
Mexico city
And Cairo
From the geological crime scene
Of the river Ganges
To the bitter harvest
Of terminator seeds
From the mountain tops
Chopped off
In the heart
Of Appalachia
From the Canadian tar sands
To the coal seams of the badlands
The polluted streams of Gasland
There is nowhere to run
Nowhere to hide
No no
Not this time
And a storm is a brewing
And you had best beware
For what profits a man
Should he gain the world
But cannot breathe its’ air
And this is no way to live          
Because this land
This sky
The sea
Was made
For you and for me
For us and for we
For them and for they
Who are not yet born
Who have yet to hear
A single rain drops song
And our hearts are stirring
Our feet are marching
The choir is rising  
So to those who would
Turn this earth
To wasteland
Our home
To landmine
To save a nickel
Or scrape thin dimes
With their eyes set
On mountains of profit  
Well you had best
Batten down the hatches
Cross your fingers
And lock your doors
Because a storm is brewing
And you have
Been warned



© The Acentos Review 2018