cloudland

marchnycI can’t pronounce

phenomenology

three times fast

but that’s hardly

the point. You may not think

the socialism of Heaven

is a big deal but I do.

It had better be.

I’ve bet my whole life

on it.

 

So state your case

‘cos I gotta pee.

The jury’s plotting

mutiny. My son graduates

at five and his mom

promised maybe.

C’mon. Let’s go.

Let’s get a jump on this three day

and cut around the dead and detained

at the airports.

 

Look. This is really

cut n dry. I’m on your side

and they can go fuck

their white-nation state.

I’m gonna judge w/extreme

prejudice and set the workers’ free.

All of us. It’s our time now

despite their thumb

on the atomic clock.

II.

I came upon a man

bruising himself w/stones.

The orange king decrees it

he cries. The gravel cutting

his skin. His blood pooling

at the base of the foot of a wall.

It’s meant to keep us in

not them out I told him or

tried to tell him

above his chanting. But his children

soon joined in. Then his church and

union hall. At potters’ field we assemble

in colorful rags: An army stumbling

upon itself sharing selfies.

Unlike the regiment that reclaims ground

for the lord. baron. king.

 

I’ve tried real hard

to keep politics

out of these things

but I can’t. I’ve learned my lesson

and today is yours. Today we advance

one more step towards union. And some

will fall and some will turn and some

will make it, like Martin said.

 

Advertisements

pillaged wine

‘scuse me for

outwardly processing but

I can’t control myself

these days. There’s too much 

to masticate and castigate 

not to. But I’m

low on patience 

and need action. Abolition.

Absolution that this statecraft

between us, between the world,

is more than funds and suppression.

More than archived warheads and

blanching at darker skin than cardboard.

I don’t buy it.

It’s not policy

it’s theology.

And the faster we make

that distinction

the better. 

God can’t lead us

all into battle

but each

will claim

his banner.

And you know the shit-storm

that shadows: tin cut messiahs

yell for blood

and everyone bleeds.

We all become bovine

and crave a good steak

w/our pillaged wine

and sterling spoons.

We feed their children ours

and that has got to stop.

‘cos I won’t spend

my golden years

mucking out

the shit of kings.

Bleaching their chambers

of virgin blood. Lighting their pyres

and burning my own.  

*

Get Involved. Stay informed. Resist.

http://writersresistorg.wixsite.com/writersresist

https://www.indivisibleguide.com/web/

https://actionnetwork.org/

https://ourrevolution.com/

https://350.org/

spring clip and t-pin

Democracy is an invitation to struggle

Benny said

after the looting.
Look, I was wrong.

We can’t win. This isn’t our

defining moment. It’s not even a decent

bong party.
Only the hungry

take to the streets

and ours is a 

fast food fix.
Armies march in time.

They don’t stumble into selfies

to tweet. Armies march in time.

Shoulders back. Eyes straight ahead
en masse. Bound by a common

oppression. Spring clipped and t-pinned

to its pretty flag. The anthem of the fuck machine

tuned to their hearts.

10haiku

I cannot describethis moment  finally free

of definition

*

in this spare hour of

examination  I have

lost my mindfulness

*

blue sky greying to

grace   gratitude  I never

not believe in you

*

the graceless boot of

warring men coil taut shiny

hard president’s men  

*

a small regatta 

of thoughts keep me from the shore

saints fall from the sky 

*

you unlock my true

mission  remove the splinter

from my eye  pardon

*

only dust and lost

birds fly over the mountain

I climb without love

*

there are faint moments
few and far between  when you

see the open path

*

nocturnes surround her

liquid luminescence  her

lips of love still wet

*

welcome him to the 

open sky  the tower of

his song   ascending 

5haiku

trains and poetryinstigate nature’s fury

rancor and venom

*

we kiss each other’s

ass on the days that poets

fall hard to define

*

I wonder where I

fall emotionally ‘tween

Jesus and the Hulk

*

welcome him to the 

open sky the tower of

his song ascending

*

being far sighted

on the near side doesn’t make

you 20/20

Crippled Run

Crippled Run
Can we not use the word

revolution anymore

until we mean it? Until we have

the balls to get back

into the game.
Your revolution. My revolution.

Fuck them both. His coup.

Her foment. Fuck you.

You know it’s a crippled run.

A lie.
A sight gag of mass proportion.

Kids. Colors. Placards aloft

w/dishonored words. Odious policies

and protocols. Handbills and banners of

bullshit bullshit bullshit.
My clan. Your cabal.

I’d shit on them both

if my guts weren’t knotted.

Light them on fire

w/their nestlings huddled.
I’d hope for a new day 

but wrote its headline:

The dead coronation

now begins.

Packaged Brightly

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury
what else do you need to know?

How they’ve fleeced your bloodline.

Gutted your sons and defaced

your angel daughters.
How they put the planet

up for sale. Sky brown. Dead Sea.

Cut down mountains to get their goods

to a new market now that yours is

dark and shuttered.
How you always owe them something

even if they’ve claimed

each extremity. One by one.

Lopped off metaphorically and

thrown in a hole
leading to 

the process machines

that break the shit down

into dinner. Packaged brightly

w/lots of salt. And sugar.

And booze. 18% by volume.
How we dance on our last leg

the latest gyration. The newest dodge

and hustle. And I wish I had a hacksaw

to cut the shin away.

Letter Home

Some Civil War guy

in 1863 wrote:

 

Martha, I have seen

the dog

n pony

show

and I

cant watch

no more.

 

Me neither.

I know

the feeling.

Especially

blue

vs.

gray.

 

I know

the blood

don’t matter.

The air

is out

of the

balloon.

 

You can call

customer service.

But I doubt

they answer

the phone.

Man w/o Secret

 

I stumble into the Apple Store
like a sage from Kansas: Cornbread crazy.
Pursuing milk.

“How can I help you today” she asks
from inside a little black dress that
shuts down all my vectors.

“Where to begin” I sigh
like my old man re-telling the time
Claire told him
to go jump rope
and he did.
He was Pawtocket’s champ
after-all.

He jumped through the hoops
w/o frown and foul word.
Gliding through the house
a man w/o secret.
Juggling the burdens we all find grave
w/an ease that came from above.

“Sorry to mislead you” I affirm
“but all the balm I need
is my own revery. Above the binary
where the mind holds sway
over machine. And not vice versa,
as it happens to be.”

plugged in and captive

 

This won’t be one of my
funny ones ‘cos
things suck around here
real bad. Everyone tearing
at each. Voting in a genie
to rise from the wreckage
and make it all better. All good.
All nicely-white again.

I’m bad w/age
and remembering names.
I was never a fan
of kabuki ‘cos it
left out chicks and
chicks were half the problem.
Or the solving. Take your pick.
It’s too vague being real
anymore.

So we prance about
plugged in and captive.
Catering the parchment kings.
Their deep, furious churches
inspiring widows to give up
their wills. Form clay into soldiers.
Soldiers into assailants.
Assailants into assassins.
Then spin the wheel again.
The hostess assures
a two week vacation.
But only if
you get out alive.