Tag Archives: political poems

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


The Last Bottle

The last bottle,
once knocked over,
drained quickly.

When someone
set it right, there was 
less than a quarter remaining.

At that point
someone far less thirsty
than we were threw it away.

It drained its last 
into the trash bucket.
We were left wanting.

Any of us
would have taken that little bit
to tide us over.

Any one of us
would have shared it
with the others.

We died 
thinking of the one
who threw it away,

no doubt with the best
of intentions. No doubt
that they saw themselves

as virtuous, perhaps even
slightly messianic. 
No doubt in our fading moments

that had they even seen us
sitting there parched,
they would have pitied us.


Spooky

Spooky
the black cat 
is missing 

the neighborhood
snoop who would
let you pet him

anywhere anytime
as long as it was only
on his head

Been gone a month
now and we’ve seen
a silver fox and coyotes

around of late
City predators 
bolder than in the past

It seems to be
a predator’s moment
right now so

I’m not holding out 
much hope for Spooky
However hope is

one of those things where
a little goes a long way
and tomorrow is 

the shortest day
of the year so it can 
only get brighter

and even if Spooky
is gone for good
we can hope that 

somewhere he’s
fine and thriving 
even as we look out

into the city night
for unaccustomed 
predators at the door

as we do every day now
peering into every corner and under
every rock

into every office in city hall
and into every Church of
Fox and Coy-wolf Triumphant

We treat it like a prayer
to listen to the news
and cross our fingers 

for Spooky either
to come home

or find a new home


Clearcutting

Clearcutting
began years ago: the ground
in some sectors
is nothing but leveled
stumps. We
didn’t always know
they were
there until after they’d
left but
when we tracked sawdust
into our homes
and looked out into what
we’d once called
“forest,” we saw the white disks of
stump-tops
shining in the moonlight.
How were we
to build now that the stuff
of worship
and sustenance were gone?
We never took 
more than we needed and now
there would not be
enough. There would not be
enough and we
shivered and stared into
the barren night
until someone — one of the children
or an elder, it’s
still not clear — someone drew
a handful of seeds
from their pocket and gestured
that there was
room now we could fill anew,
and we fell down
and wept for the loss while
planning
to sow for the gain.