Just like that,
there were so many bones
in the stew that
it became a chore to eat.
We choked and sucked around them
but were only made more hungry
by the effort needed
to feed.
Slowly, we gained confidence;
bit down, chewed through,
and learned from that
that inside each bone
was a center as full of flavor
as any of the softer meat;
while the work became
no easier, in the end
we were stronger and less inclined
to treat ease
as a birthright worth its taste.
many of you
have just learned
that we live in an onion
which once peeled splits
fairly easily and reeks
and makes you weep
but have yet
to learn another thing
long known to many
that if you wash your hands with
stainless steel right away
and dry yourself up
you stop weeping and
then can get back to work
making something
PS
you will of course
still have to do
some chopping
but there are many people
who can explain that to you
if you are willing to learn
While reading and fantasizing
about the French Resistance
before dawn,
I come across the term
“le Refus Absurde,” used to describe
those actions early
in the Nazi occupation when,
even though it seemed certain that
the Reich would triumph and
last a thousand years, individuals
would begin to resist even though
they felt the effort was futile. They’d
slash a tire, cut a cable, write
a subversive poem, start
an underground newspaper. Armed
resistance only came later…Many
spoke of moments when le Refus Absurde
crystallized within them, climaxes
of incipient struggle; for some it was seeing friends
beaten or marched away, for others
the look of contempt on the faces
of German soldiers as they marched
into towns like a swarm
of sneering Twitter comments.
Waiting in fear
in this sudden,
moonless dark.
Lying alone all across
the country, some scattered
face down upon stone;
some of us clawing alone
at barn-board floors,
gasping for air;
others huddled
in city doorways,
watching our homes burn,
watching
everything beloved
burn.
Tonight the fight
is at the door
and not of our making.
Tonight we fight back their way,
by the glowing rage
of uncounted flames.
But tomorrow?
Tomorrow, we fight our way,
illuminated
by the unlimited
light of
song.
1.
Get out and vote
you anti American
Get out and vote
you racist bastard
Get out and vote
you gun stealing liberal
Get out and vote
you rich little shitcake
Get out and vote
you uninformed minion
Get out and vote
you infowarrior
Get out and vote
you Christ-chanting dupe
Get out and vote
you Allah-loving Monster
Get out and vote
you atheist dog
Get out and vote
you pole-dancing street mom
Get out and vote
you staid little dingbat
Get out and vote
you celebrity annoyance
Get out and vote
you decent confusion
Get out and vote
you best intention
Get out and vote
you came here to do this
Get out and vote
you were born here to do this
Get out and vote
you have blood on the ground
Get out and vote
you want oil in the ground
Get out and vote
you are shamed into caring
Get out and vote
you are a shame to the flag
Get out and vote
you are a shame to your mothers
Get out and vote
you are a scandal to your fathers
Get out and vote
you are an infinite number
an infinite number
a number
number
numb
2.
On a treeless plain in North Dakota
rubber bullets are voting
for stasis
On a street yet to be named in any given city
police bullets are voting
for stasis
In any prison in any given state
forced labor is voting
for stasis
On the New York Stock Exchange
the currency is voting
for stasis
3.
Get out
and vote
It gives you
something to do
Gives you
a place to stand
Gives them
stasis
Originally posted 11/3/2012.
When apocalypse comes,
it will come slowly.
God will not have sent it.
It won’t have been sent at all.
It will just come of its own accord
on its own wisdom path.
If asked, it will say, “I came to be here
because this path that opened before me
brought me here.”
The mountains at the edge of town
will nod,
almost too slowly to notice.
The long hair of meadows
will wave in assent. The rest of earth
will agree with it at once.
Then, as it serenely kills us,
we will be forced to accept
the expertise that pushed for this —
Wisdom itself seems bent
on using catastrophe to instruct
as we seem unable to learn
that we are not
and have never been
at the end of that path.
Election eve,
and leaf by leaf
it’s all coming down
outside. Next door
they’re raking leaves
into piles before
putting them
into the street for
collection, with a scratch
upon scratch of
metal teeth on
worn asphalt and hard
brush of the same
sweeping over
thin lawn: sounds
of ending and
of resignation to
the hard work of
coming winter.
As for me, laboring
over a difficult task
indoors, stopping
to finish this poem
surreptitiously, as if
someone was
hovering over my shoulder?
I heard somewhere
that raking is bad
for the lawn and
right or wrong, that suits me
fine. Permission to keep my head
in the sand of this work
a little longer. Living
according to
acceptable facts. Winter’s
looming, getting here
maybe as early
as tomorrow night. I
will stay right here
for as long as I can
and do nothing urgently
needed, except
perhaps this poem
is what is needed,
I tell myself
this is the most vital work
of the moment
even as we are buried,
leaf by leaf,
in the Fall.
If I had
disappeared
years before today
into the hard
landscape of
my greatest longing
and ended up as
anonymous bones
scattered along an arroyo
I would still be
better off than
I am now.
You don’t see
how that could be
possible. From within
your deep love
of life you
cannot see
how such a blotting out
could be
desirable.
Look at the sunset,
which will be over
soon. Look at
the way it reds
and then purple-grays
the west-facing slopes,
then think of
never seeing it again
except in memory:
think of how
lovely it was and
of how its beauty
only existed
as a result of
its vanishing.
If any miracle
happens in this room
I will surely witness it
as I rarely leave
this room.
In fact, if any
odd occurrence
at all stirs here
I’ll certainly see it.
Now, if I leave this room,
that will be
an odd occurrence.
If I leave this room,
I will myself become
an odd occurrence
in whatever room I enter.
If I become
an odd occurrence
I hope I can see myself
outside of this room.
I think about these things
so you won’t have to.
I stay in this room and think
of odd occurrences
and then write about them
so you can read what I wrote and say
how odd.
What an odd character he is.
It’s a miracle that anyone
could think that way. It’s not
as good as walking on water
but it’s a little like
raising life out of death.
I suppose that comes
from how he stays
in that room. I couldn’t do it.
It takes a special sort
of oddity to do that, I think.
I’m glad someone does it
but I couldn’t.
From my room,
so sticky thick
with oddity,
I can hear you out there
discussing me.
I can hear you out there.
It doesn’t make me
eager to leave
this room.
It doesn’t
make me eager for
anything out there.
At the moment we realize
that we’ve been in
the apocalypse
for a while,
we learn
as well
not to speak of it
to others
who may not
yet know
that this is
where we are
so as not to create
a general panic:
instead, it is revealed
to each of us
in exacting detail
so deep as to be
unshakably true,
and as we begin
to tremble
at the impending
End, it becomes clear
to us that we must tremble
alone. Now and then
we may see the eyes
of another who knows
and nod or perhaps
brush against
each other
in a crowd —
rogue effort
at sympathy,
comfort
in a swift
glancing touch —
then, we return
to the seemingly endless
beginning of the lonely
end. No fire, no pestilence,
no storm or epic war
in this: only the slow
madness of not being able
to share it for long with anyone.
Saw a reunited punk band last night
they did an old song called voodoo economics
a bootstrap trickle down call-out
and it didn’t sound dated
they did a new song called scab
about a liar snake class traitor
and it didn’t sound new
it was a band called The Proletariat
and I wondered how many in the crowd
knew what that means
before them was another old punk crew
called Neutral Nation
they did a song called apathy
lead singer said
you better not be apathetic
this coming election day
nobody responded
some people say
the greatest thing that ever happened
to American punk
was Ronald Reagan
The Proletariat have a song
called Options
bend my ear
twist my arm
show me the options
options
options
still looking for options
but while I’m waiting let me say
I’ve missed this
even though I’m afraid its time
has come to pass again
has slouched around again
Just going to slip underwater
and listen for a second
to strong muffled echoes
of distant shouting,
sharp snap of stones
smacked together
by children in shallow water
near shore, delighted
to discover how crisp
such things
may sound when taken out of
this world into another.
I wonder how crisp I sound
as I take myself
from that world to this one.
I like it here. I think I’ll stay,
even though I’m still holding
so much, so many words
tightly inside me, wrapped in
quickening, instinctual panic
at how natural it feels
to not be breathing, to be down here
instead of above water shouting
and struggling and splashing about
as I was just a few minutes ago.
When sooner or later
I do surrender, exhale,
and sink away from all this
I’ll say and be at last
what I’ve wanted to say and be,
and will understand
how I was supposed to sound
all along: strong and echoing,
each word informed finally
by my trust that even if there
is no salvation to be had by doing so,
I will have let it all go
as I should have done long before.
In Europe, one hundred years ago,
good folk used to speak of
“the demi-monde” — French for
the half world.
Class of those unafflicted
by established social codes.
The first resort of starving artists.
Last resort of misfits and such.
Shining examples of how not to be.
The half-world,
where some felt
fully present for the first time
in their damned lives.
A woman of the demi-monde
was known as a “demimondaine” —
by which the good folk meant
prostitute,
even if she was not —
by which was therefore meant,
fair game.
By which was meant,
there is some use
for that half of the world.
In Paris
the good folk once called their worst thugs
“les Apaches.”
By which they meant,
this particular part of the demi-monde
is dangerous.
The French
pronunciation softened
the hard edge of a tribal name
stolen for a savage badge,
by which was meant
face one and you will get
the storied treatment you’d get
if you faced our awful dreams of
Apaches.
Two dance instructors once prowled
the bars and cafes of the demi-monde
to bring back to the good folk
a dance called
“La Danse Apache.”
A man, a woman,
playing at pimp and whore,
man striking her down,
woman fighting back,
a tango of sorts ending
with the woman carried limp
from the stage.
By which was meant,
here is how “les Apaches”
are.
The dance became all the rage.
By which was meant,
here we honor all our dreams of savagery.
In the USA
during that same time,
professional sports teams
began to be named
Braves, Indians, Redskins.
By which was meant,
here are our mascots,
here are our fighters,
here are our dangerous men.
They are still called that.
By which is still meant,
here is something we can use.
By which is meant,
we’ve already stolen
slaves, gold, cultures,
entire continents,
a whole half-world —
why stop there?
There is a German word
from the world of opera
for a song lovers sing
as they die together,
tangled in passion:
“Liebestod.”
By which is meant,
there is nothing now
but this final desperate
clutching.
Turnabout is only fair.
Liebestod is beginning.
There is no savagery
in those syllables — or at least, none worse
than all that has come before —
by which is meant,
dance, Liebchen, dance.
I call you out for
helping to forge
this dagger I’ve made
of myself.
I admit my own
role in the making.
I admit to upkeep
upon the edge.
I admit to putting in
long hours learning
to use it. I admit,
I confess, I fully
concur in your
description of my
willingness to
cut and carve. But
this is your time to
say as well that
all the fight in me
would have meant nothing
or indeed might never
have happened if
you hadn’t put me
through fire and beaten me,
tempered and honed
and hilted me, gave me
balance, proved me.
You weaponized me
until I reached
my full potential.
You started me
thinking to end me;
instead I completed me
and now you stand surprised
at what I’ve become
and what I’ve done. I am
neither proud nor ashamed
of myself. After all is said,
I am your blade.
Your cold steel.
How you feel,
on the other hand,
something you ought
to consider,
is rightly no concern
of mine.
Sweating through my clothes
in the distant face
of no imminent danger.
At least I’m bulletproof.
I’ve covered my vital organs
in a thick layer of poems.
At least I’m buoyant if I fall in
cold water. I’m clutching
a chapbook that turns into a life raft.
At least I’m fireproof. I’m
surrounded by an impenetrable wall
of verse.
At least I’m well-documented.
If I die, if my heart fails me
with all this stress, you’ll know
exactly who I was.
