I do not recall any more of this, but I am afraid and hope-filled at once; all this before breakfast, before the second cup of coffee.
Tag Archives: political poems
The Apocalypse Began This Morning
Poems About Love
The man claimed
his poem was about love
but it was about
fucking and only fucking.
We wanted love poems that smelled
of bullets and instead got this
rose and mountain stream,
fresh bread and snowdrop scent.
We wanted to hear love poems
about Babylon falling
and fires in the streets,
but instead got this wordy mess
about hydraulics and heat transfer,
not at all the same as the fire
we longed for. Love sometimes demands
a war song. Love is often
a hand up to a streeted body
and a slap across authority’s
mouth, or at least it should be.
Love sometimes looks like
riot wounds and how we tenderly
clasp another’s tired hands
in our own after a revolution,
but all this poet can say
is that he wants to be inside,
inside, when all we want of love
is for someone to bleed alongside us
as we fight to come in out of the cold.
President Icebreaker
This country once,
to some or perhaps most,
looked solid and white from above,
much like a blank paper, perhaps like
the back of a page in a history
text book or the back of a facsimile
of a foundational document,
or most of all, like a sea of deadly cold
covered by an ice pack.
When the Captains of Industry
and Control finally decided
it had gone on long enough and
brought in an Icebreaker,
when they finally chose to lose the illusion
and let everyone in on the open secret,
when they decided they simply
didn’t care anymore about hiding the truth,
started breaking the ice wide enough apart
to make their greed work less difficult
and thus made it so folks could see
deep cold ocean beneath,
killer ocean that had always been there,
it staggered those
who’d been fighting drowning all their lives
while stuffed below the ice forever and a day
to see how the broken floes
who’d thought they were solid and safe
gave up their volition and sense
to get behind the Icebreaker itself
as it portrayed itself as
a savior of the great white pack,
who thought they’d make it when the ship
got through and showed
how thin the ice had always been,
how the solidity had been fragile from the start
and the fact that it hid the cruel sea under it
was the only reason it had been allowed
to last as long as it had.
Thirteen Ways Of Looking At A Tyrant (after Wallace Stevens)
I
The tyrant is not himself magical.
The tyrant is nothing himself but
the result of a spell.
II
There are some who say
his name is magical. They say
he cannot remain a tyrant
if we do not
say his name.
III
There are some
who call him
by his grandfather’s name.
They
agree with the tyrant
that some names
are less powerful
for their foreign origin.
IV
The tyrant is
utterly himself. The tyrant
is always present, in the moment,
a bruise or fresh gash.
V
Dare we admit that
something in us is thrilled
that the tyrant has unmasked
the perpetual tyranny
that preceded him here?
VI
The tyrant’s mood
is easy in the morning,
easy in the evening. The tyrant’s mood
is always easier to read
than predict.
VII
The tyrant walks among men
as if he were thin and everything
about him were golden. He
walks among women as if
he needs, when among them,
to stretch an arm, to reach out.
VIII
The long game, the short game.
The endless hours riding around
outdoors. The sun on his scalp,
yet the tyrant will not believe
in the sun.
IX
While wringing their hands
over the tyrant’s deeds and words
some fall into a shadow
and never come out again.
X
A tyrant, any tyrant,
must breathe the same air
as everyone else, but
more of it. This tyrant
draws like a furnace,
chimney gone wild with flame.
XI
There are not yet enough songs
to suck air from under the tyrant’s wings.
XII
The tyrant sits up late,
speaks to the dark, never dreams
without acting out the dream.
XIII
What a tyrant does, says,
what a tyrant is, is nothing new.
What’s new: this tyrant
on a branch above the schoolyard,
staring at our children. This tyrant
in the doorway of the bedroom, drooling
over us. This tyrant bedecked
in a throng of blackbirds
adoring him, waiting for us
to take our hands
from our eyes.
Freedom Of Choice
Sometimes it’s good
to give up and become
a camera in order to
choose a long view over
a close up, deciding upon what
to focus to the exclusion
of all else. Sometimes
it’s better to shrug and become
a microphone hooked to a
recorder and catch all the noise
for you to sift and edit to your tastes
later. Sometimes it’s best of all
to write yourself a role in a grand play
and play it in context, with measured,
mannered voice.
Then comes the moment
when you cannot transform into
the tool or medium of your choice
and you are forced
to be human,
finally aware of how much
you have been privileged
to experience life
on whatever terms you chose,
and next you may rage and roil in pain
or fall into a swamp of tears,
but that is when you will begin to understand
that from then on, whenever
you are moved to reach for art,
art will no longer be a choice.
whitenoise
from birth
you were walked
blindered into
forest
forever bumping into
trees
stumbling off path
into a swamp
(as was intended)
your steps
sucking so loud
can’t hear a way out
and not like it’s easy to
grope a way back
hands on trees
you can’t see
in a forest
you can’t see
all you’ve got is your ears
but once you’re out of
the worst of the swamp
it’s all one white blur
of whitenoise
you’ll need a good brown voice
in your ear to find your way
outta here
and it will tell you
the first step
is to open your eyes
and see where the whitenoise
is coming from
and the second step is
to shut up
it must follow
that the third
is to listen
What It Takes To Break Them Down
The grand mistake
of thinking you can do this in short order,
the grand mistake that gets you going.
Burning through shoe leather, and
having the willingness to face
eventual bullets.
The entertained thought
of your own need for
eventual bullets.
Shaking it off, then
letting it come back to rest
near the ancestors’ graves, if needed.
Shoe leather, again.
Cardboard for signs,
short money shared for bail.
A promise to take care of
kids if…A promise to keep going
if…promises to…keep promises…
Wary eyes
on supposed alliances
made from necessity.
Hunger, thirst,
comfort, vinegar, bandanas,
holy lies, selective deceit, stealth.
End of the world as we know it.
End of the world we don’t.
Lying down to sleep in a world no one knows.
Hope? Honor? Success?
Don’t hold your breath looking for it
in a mirror. A telescope, maybe.
“The Great Man”
often portrayed smiling
with hands outstretched to all
and sundry
historically
has almost always been
also a hangman
in some sense
hooded
holding
someone else’s noose
putting it over
someone else’s head
pulling someone else’s
lever
he smiles in public
in order to get
the hangman’s job
he wears the hood
so you can’t see
he’s still smiling
Unsaid
I will not say
they are animals.
Their behaviors are
far too human.
I will not call them
stupid as what they’re
doing seems to be
focused and working.
I will not say
this is temporary,
that at heart I’m sure
they’re fine people.
I will not say
they have some
good ideas. They do
say what many
are thinking
but until this were
afraid to speak aloud.
They aren’t afraid anymore.
I will not say
there’s no hidden
agenda. Someone’s
certainly not talking
about something,
because somehow
certain people win
regardless of public
knowledge, regardless
of apparent opposition
by the powerful. Regardless
it always seems to work out
for the same people.
I will not name them.
You know them, I know them,
they don’t care who knows.
All these ideas and words
I’ve left unsaid are things
people know, and they
either detest them
but despair of changing them
or they dismiss them and think
they will be gone soon or
they love them and are
sitting pretty with those ideas and words
in their laps as if they were darling
children with full sets of teeth
from birth to go along with
their deep yellow eyes.
I will not call them by their names
but I will not avoid those eyes,
I will not refrain from cracking their teeth
if I get the chance
before I am devoured.
All Comfort Is Promised
All comfort is always promised
to the boy with the broken mouth
who himself was fractured in the street
by shadowy thugs in service to the rule
of order imposed in place of righteousness.
All comfort is always promised
to the girl coerced, the woman coerced, to those
cajoled and coaxed, captured and crushed
by some masked in privilege and others
who simply took what they wanted and left behind
whatever they did not.
All comfort is always promised
to those displaced now housed
far from home, to those
who’ve made the best of it and those
who’ve made nothing from it,
all of whom nevertheless dream
the same homegoing dream every night.
All comfort is promised
in every book of every scripture
to every one of these oppressed and violated,
every one of those seeking refuge
from acts driven in some cases
by the double dealing tongues of those
who hold those same scriptures up
to ward off the guilt of having led us all here —
when willl it begin? When will the night be
safe, the coerced free to walk away,
the unhomed free to rehome themselves?
When will the last violation be redressed?
When will promises be kept at last?
When will all this promised comfort
descend like a blanket
upon all who need it,
and when will we
have learned enough ourseves
not to question
anyone who in fact
truly needs it when they ask?
In A Shithole Country
words stay with you.
In your sleep you
can still hear them,
even though you
don’t believe them,
not really.
But then again,
it takes one to know one, or so
it is said and
according to him,
in his country
the President’s
official house is
a dump and the neighbors
ship rapists and
drugs right over
the line to infest
the clean bathrooms of
the homeland — and
don’t forget: his own
shithole, back home
in his palace, is alleged
to be plated in gold,
is kept very, very clean.
Bullion
in a bowl
just smells right, right?
Meanwhile,
in Norway,
no one’s getting up
to pack.
A shithole’s in
the eye of
the beholder, it seems,
and sometimes found
most easily
under
an ass.
Button
There’s a button
we are supposed to press right now
that doesn’t seem to be working.
I think we’re supposed
to hear something
and I don’t know about you
but I can’t hear a thing.
I expected a buzz or a click
or music. A flashing light
or a change in temperature.
A door to swing open or
one to shut tight. This is
disconcerting. This has me
extremely worried.
Let’s try something. I will
mash down on this button
again and again
until it stays stuck
in the down position.
Now what
are we going to do? Tell me
if you can that there’s an operation
happening elsewhere beyond
the senses which is proceeding
as it’s supposed to despite
the apparent failure of that
which is designed to initialize
a process or complete one
depending on when it is pushed.
I find it hard to imagine
that there’s something so broken
it cannot be revived. I’ll buy it
if you tell me otherwise
because otherwise we just wasted
a lot of time and energy
banging on a button that no longer
moves when pressed
and if that’s the case
I will no longer move
when pressed. I will
stay crushed down. I will
pretend I am operational.
I will not be anyone’s button
any more. One of a field
of buttons. One button on
a panel full of useless buttons.
Another country not heard from.
An Open Letter To Blank
Dear Blank,
I’m starting this letter without knowing exactly who it is addressed to, figuring and hoping that your identity will become clear by the time I get to closure. In the meantime, I hope you don’t mind me calling you “Blank,” do you?
While in the past this may have been strange behavior, I feel that with the current pervasiveness of social media and the resultant increasingly public nature of formerly private communication, this feels like so much of what we see and hear today — a need to express oneself with little regard as to who the actual, tangible, physical audience for the letter will ultimately be.
So…without knowing who you are, Blank, let me get down to the business at hand. I’m trying to parse out the nature of fear in 2018, and I feel like the only way to do it is through an intimate dialogue with someone as terrified as I am on both social and personal levels, because that is where fear lives for me these days.
I’m terrified for society, my unknown friend or friends; terrified because while I’m not naive enough to believe that the current national and world situations are new, or unprecedented, or even all that unexpected, I’m experienced enough to see as well that something evil has become commonplace enough in our dialogue that the overall level of it is rising as we focus on the greatest, most visible expressions of it.
For example, the current rise of Fascism world wide is stunning in its banality; as we think of the gaudy-greedy, gold-stained, over-eager hands of Trump meddling in, well, everything, we can’t help but focus on his taste and lack of finesse as the infrastructure of government thins dangerously beneath him and the judiciary becomes a imperialist rubber stamp. It’s like a giant game of Jenga, with the players having no long term intention of trying to keep the structure upright at all.
(I think the Big Guys are terrified themselves, of course. Not for a moment do I think they are unaware of climate change and resource exhaustion as a looming apocalypse, whatever their public pronouncements. I think they are cashing out, taking what they can before the whole structure collapses…but that’s a story for another day…)
At the same time, I’m terrified on a personal level as a person with multiple chronic illnesses, a precarious income, and a support circle drawn largely from people much like me. I’m terrified because if as we so often and so glibly say the personal is political, then I clearly have a vested interest in fighting back about what’s going on out there — except that my resources for doing so are fairly compromised at the moment in some ways by the stuff that’s going on out there.
I see my friends and family of color, my poor family and friends, my LGBTQ family and friends, my non-binary friends and family, my fellow artists…I see all of us being pressed these days in unprecedented ways, accelerated ways. Ways not unlike those of the past, but aided and abetted and enhanced by the very ease with which every adversary from the government to their allied media to the private citizens who’ve become fellow travelers on the path of oppression may stick it to us on FB and Twitter, may compromise our very finances and privacy and identities with a little bit of work from the comfort and safety of their own anonymous homes.
Part of how we got here is that we’re fed on falsehood from an early age these days. We’re exposed to so much bad information, so much distortion, and so little practice in critical thinking that we often can’t tell Fascism from its opposite…but that’s beyond where I wanted to go with this, at least at the moment…because how we got here, dear Blank, is a long story, and I want to make this letter briefer than that.
I want to say that right now, after history, after the past, we’re in a place of Fear that I think is indeed different than it was in past crises. I think we’re approaching a terminal moment that may last a few years, a decade or two, or a bit longer, but which will ultimately bring formerly unimaginable consequences to all. And while it may indeed lead to a collapse of capitalism, patriarchy, heterosexism, and all that as the most utopian among us believe, the world we inherit after will be unlike what we have now in terms of resources and infrastructure, and we will have such a long moment of suffering to follow as we rebuild.
Thing is, Blank, I won’t be here to see it. I’m aging and somewhat unwell as I alluded to earlier; while I continue to do what I can to resist the worst of the depredations of the Fascists (after all, not everyone who sits anonymously at home, working in the darkness online, is one of their supporters), my reach is limited and specific. My art and writing and music are tools and weapons as well, but I can only do so much.
Blank, I thought at first I didn’t know who you were. Halfway through, I thought I’d figured it out; I thought you might be my conscience and that this might be my guilt reaching out to you for my own purposes.
I was wrong.
Blank, I still don’t know who you are, exactly. I’m not even sure you’ve been born yet, if you can read English, or ever will. But I know this: you will come along one day and you feel this same fear and know this discussion as if you’d written the letter yourself. You and I will be in dialogue across space, possibly even across time. Maybe you’ll be deep in the midst of the upheaval yet to come as I’ve pictured it.
All I want you to know is this: you aren’t alone. You’ve never been alone, as I am not. We all do our parts and even if we never meet, somehow we must be comforted by the knowledge that we are not alone in the struggle. We do what we can, we do what we must, and as long as we do what we can, even if “They” win in the largest sense, “They” will forever know that the victory will never be absolute as long as we can name and address and fight and sneer at the Fear that is their greatest weapon.
Don’t fear, Blank. Not in the deep sense, not in the ultimate existential sense of ultimate despair. Don’t give them the satisfaction of your fear.
Thanks for listening to this, however you do eventually hear it. I have no doubt you will, and that you will understand.
Love always,
T
December 2017
A year ago,
prayer for some,
drums for others,
glee in secret for some,
public fear
for others.
Not so different today
as meanness walks the land
with a bared sword in a dirty hand.
Some words once whispered
are now shouted by those
raised up by fear and loathing
to seats of power.
Those opposed
barely know each other,
fight pessimism, share
sketchy rumors, grateful
for moments of agreement
while under suspicion
for our nods and smiles.
A year ago we didn’t know
how hard it would be to hope.
A year ago, we didn’t know
how vital it would be that we try,
how much it would cost us to try,
but a meanness
walks the land,
and we have no choice
but to try.
The Heir
— From a prompt by Jeff Stumpo.
in an anteroom the size of
a fairy tale palace
the prince of the moment
eldest son of the king
schemes in stage whispers
to burst out of the door
and tell a little white lie
the size of a gingerbread house
full up with cannibals
and unsuspecting victims
a fatal little story
about the trickle down effects
of shed blood
on dry skin
in hope that he will be
believed just long enough
to get his in the form of
a treasure the size of a dragon’s hoard
and all around
the people fall for it
and fail to notice how
he is as lizard-dry as any dragon
already and sweats not at all
neither water nor blood
as he lies and pontificates
and schemes and swindles
the way he learned to do it
from his father the king
whose wary, puffy eyes
are turned in suspicion upon his son
just as the son’s eyes are turned
upon his father with equal caution
though neither can see the other
through the greed that fills his view
while the world dies
before them in service to a hunger
the size of a mountain perched
on a larger mountain —
two blind men defending
their precious darknesses
