Poetry

by

Fifth Estate # 338, Winter, 1992

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TAKING IT ALL BACK AGAIN

walls smeared with

burnt campaign posters

cracks papered over

with yellowed collection

notices

.

we pass smokes

swap zip codes

wait for toxic

clouds to dissipate

.

eyes lay in darkness

and wait

.

wait to take it

all back and start

again.

—Jay Marvin

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

open hands

mind is the invisible meaningless

pope of my church. i hope the end is not

near. we need no armageddon. this is

somewhat the end already. automobiles. the saints of technology. We

cannot live without them. The relics we revere

the sentimental value of metal and glass the circulation slows.

tribute to the cold wet fuck. slowly quickly

slowly again. speed and friction. parting

closing joining of selves. wet shivering

pulse and spasm. the giving of measured

portions of self. retaining the dreams spaghetti spilled warm will seep through

the floorboards.

poke holes in the sand. dig deeply

find the onions and clams buried in the production of warm yellow

cardigans we can grow in. take the picket signs across the country

understand the hierarchy. work around it.

walk right through it. but do not just stare. subsidy of the one soul. bitter angry

butterflies. the gentle drums. tape your hands. bind them

yourself.

—Miriam R. Jones

FACADE
for Edward Bellamy

past the

rackled blue misty gates of

misbegotten hope afire: we

see the sham and shell of this

world around us. It seems

all surface-yet it is our

creation. We turned heaven

into hell as a joke, a folly.

We spend lives like we

spend money and to what

end alas? Those who have

truly bent the back of time

erase this sad spectacle

with our seeing hearts.

The mad afurious flames

renew. We wash off

spattered paint and

thick skins of dust. To

remove all layers, to

cast off disguises, to stand

naked, pulsating, true.

All a blur, all candy,

and yet to live to live

full and sure, e’er aware.

—Maurice Greenia Jr.

INCANTATIONS FOR CRAZY HORSE

(who’d poison the land, put the people in

cages? who’d cut off a hand, rip out

all the pages?) Kee-ah-ae-na-ho! The

hawk is afire. The owl rips out the stars

from the nightsky. The bison digs beneath

the earth in search of gods. The snake

is tied into knots. The scorpion dances

atop a tall cactus. The fish sleep in the clouds.

—Maurice Greenia Jr.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

* I WILL WALK THE STREETS ALONE * I WILL BURP IN PUBLIC * I WILL FUCK ONLY WHO I WANT * I WILL DANCE WHENEVER I WANT * I WILL BE THE MASTER OF MY OWN BODY * I WILL SLEEP IN ON SUNDAYS * I WILL LIE IN THE SUN WITHOUT ANY CLOTHING * I WILL SHOUT OBSCENITIES * I WILL TEAR DOWN THE PHALLIC STATUES * I WILL LEARN HERSTORY * I WILL WALK WITH MY HEAD UP * I WILL WEAR SHORT SKIRTS WHERE EVER I PLEASE * I WILL LIVE WITHOUT FEAR * I WILL BE LISTENED TO * I WILL TELL STORIES WHERE THE PRINCESS & THE PRINCESS LIVE HAPPILY EVER AFTER * I WILL TOUCH MY BODY WITHOUT SHAME * I WILL LIVE WITHOUT GUILT * I WILL GROW OLD WILDLY * I WILL TELL EVERYONE ABOUT MY PERIOD * I WILL TASTE MY OWN BLOOD * I WILL LOVE MY SISTERS * I WILL KNOW MY OWN BODY * I WILL SIT WITH MY KNEES APART * I WILL CREATE MY OWN REVOLUTION * I WILL LIVE MY OWN LIFE * I WILL TAKE CARE OF MYSELF *

—lisa last

Rock and roll is dead.

Poetry is dead.

Decadent culture is dead.

The dinosaur lured you in

and told fortunes based on

the nails ripping in the

sole of your boot.

It’s an elegant prowl

looking through the shadows

of distant faces and bodies

masquerading under the lights

of any avenue in this temple.

It’s a tango with the void:

millions living one on top of the other,

rubbing shoulders,

never making eye contact,

eagerly searching for the dissolution

of the mirage,

the stale dynamic of spectacle/spectator

reproduced again & again behind

a veil of vanishing oxygen,

dwindling love and

expiring abundance.

The morning of the broken clock

is upon us.

—Sunfrog

SONG TO A MOUNTAIN’S DISRUPTION

log this place to bits

log it thus the order

search the ole earth

it will all come back

.

log the hill–log the yard

log gimmie log

gimmie more and more

gimmie gimmie gimmie

log and don’t listen

log till the hill is cleared

log onward into tomorrow

last left of none

log hear me cut

cut hear me wash

duff off the earth face

down to the bare rocks

.

log hear me moola

moola in me pocket

tree all gone–hey!

trees no more

.

log hear me paper

or cabinet or chair-house,

wind moves over clearcut

hey, wind moves on thru

.

log and yank

log and yield

log and heart

heart it be torn

.

log ’em old trees

log ’em old buggers

for what use are they, huh?

hey can’t remember my name

.

log our own history

log that species habitat

change it is due brother

oh so fast the cut cut cut

.

cut with saw sister

hack that limb uncle

burn to ash that slash auntie

plow, dynamite, bulldoze over, my god?

.

log that old bell

log that old house

log that great spirit

what is left cries and cries

and cries

—Jay Hamburger

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