Tag Archives: political poems

The Fitzpatrick Scale

Reached into a paper bag full of concepts.

Pulled out a handful of calories,
a small clump of degrees Celsius,
one or two 
ohms, a sole ampere; was

disappointed that I had not come up
with the light-year 
I had imagined
might be lurking somewhere within;

was glad I hadn’t
freezer-burned my palm upon 
a Kelvin
or seared it with roentgens. 

Nonsense, you say. That makes no sense.
Those things do not exist

without application to existence — 

we simply measure
what is real with them; 
we measure what is real
with what is unreal.

For instance, depending on the circumstances
there are several measures one can use
for the differences
between colors, to distinguish between
one shade and another
of what we are viewing.

Those differences are defined numerically
after viewing selected images or samples
with sophisticated instruments;
for easier visualization
the results are plotted
onto one of a number of different charts
called “color spaces.”

There are different color spaces
for different applications — scientific
or graphic design — no one standard
works in all cases —

we measure what is real with
the unit we create for our purposes;
we measure what is real
with what is unreal.

The Fitzpatrick Scale
is a color space
for human skin tones,
developed to help understand
concepts related to the rate
of absorption of ultraviolet light
by various shades
of human skin.

The Unicode Standard,
a computer industry agreement 
defining how characters
should be represented
in computer text across languages, 

uses the Fitzpatrick Scale
to ensure uniform representation
of various human skin tones
when creating the symbols
known as “emojis.”

Sixty-four Unicode Standard emojis use
the Fitzpatrick Scale
to represent men,
boys, women,
girls, fists, thumbs
up and down…

We use an unreal
to measure a real,
then use it to create
an unreal used to represent
another unreal;

Unicode Standard says, hey,
we’re just trying to keep it real.

It is currently
both real and unreal that

some carry a Fitzpatrick Scale
in hand or head 
to measure the darkness of heart
of any given individual;
evil rises, it seems to them,
by the same increase in degree 
of ultraviolet absorption
their skin can tolerate — if 
the skin matches this sample,
they seem to say, 
fire
when ready.

The Hatcher Factor is
an old and contested formula
for determining the stopping power
of a bullet of specific caliber.

Most experts agree that it is based
on outdated information,

but all also agree
that any bullet well placed
will break any skin
regardless of its place
on the Fitzpatrick Scale.

Reach into the paper bag of concepts again;
come up empty handed.
In spite of all our work
to measure what is real

we apparently have no way
to calibrate fear and mockery,
the banality of reduction, 
the weight of dispassionate killing:

there’s apparently
no color space large enough
for all the shades of tears.

 


The World At War

How many must still enjoy
World War II
that it rolls endlessly on
basic cable channels
newsreel upon newsreel
propaganda piled on
propaganda

getting what must be
satisfactory ratings

There’s never been a time
in my entirely postwar life
when I could not find a program
somewhere on the schedule
that once again
laid it all out
from Poland to Nagasaki

I think it must be
the machinery
the tanks and planes and ships of course
but more 
the effortless conversion
of men into cogs

and the smoke
and the sorrow of the enemy
and the burning of the bodies
and the smiles upon victory

a barely concealed
glee and fascination

with all the permissions 
that were granted
for horrible actions

and at last the resolution
that has allowed for
a lifetime of sequels


This Is The Place

this is the place

where I could run into the street directly from stage
screaming “can I get 
some DMT here and then
I need to borrow a nail gun
just for an hour I promise”
and no one will blink

they’ll call it creative
they’ll call it a performance piece
they’ll call me eccentric

this is the place

where while on acid in college
I could holler
“you fucking pigs”
at cops while sitting 
cleaning my nails with a knife
in shorts while sitting in a snowbank
and never see the inside of a cell

they called me troubled
they called me lost
they called it an isolated incident

this is the place

where yesterday I yelled my way out of
a truly undeserved ticket
by simply telling the cop
they were full of shit
and no way I did that
and did I look like the kind of person
who’d do that 

they decided I didn’t
they let me go
they let me drive away still fuming and punching the wheel

this is the place

where I get away with all that
where I live to tell the tale
where no one has ever tried to choke or shoot me 
for being an asshole
for being an idiot
for being a kid

they find another way
they have an alternative solution
they have darker fish to fry


I Wake Up In Despair

I wake up in despair most mornings. Each day
slants uphill and it takes everything to climb it 
with the load I’ve got to bear.

I wake up in despair most mornings
but find comfort in knowing 
things that a Pharaoh can’t know — 

how, for instance, to pick myself up
without an entourage to help me; how in fact
to get by with no entourage, neither in celebration

nor in sorrow; how to fall down back-broken
and get back up again next day for another round
with nothing but what’s in me to pull me up.

I wake in despair most mornings. Each day
bores me — sometimes with a dull drill, sometimes
with a bludgeon of same and same and same again.

I wake in despair most mornings 
but find comfort in knowing
things that a boss can’t know, or has forgotten —

how to do the dirtiest bits of a dozen jobs, for example;
how to take the next step when it’s time, how to 
fix the broken piece, how not to fail

from seven AM to lunch, how to stay awake
from lunch to three PM and longer
if three PM becomes 5 PM or later.

I wake in despair most mornings knowing
how little of my life is open to me, based on
how much time I have to spend recovering from the rest of it.

I wake in despair most mornings
but I can almost get to glee in knowing
what a king does not, what they may never know —

how to run riot in the streets to spite all my aches and pains,
how to run riot in the streets with all the others aching and pained,
how to run riot in the streets knowing how little time I likely have — 

but knowing as well that ahead of me, somewhere
cowering, somewhere hiding behind mere walls, 
a king, a boss, and a Pharaoh are, at last, themselves in despair.


The Authority Cultivator

the authority cultivator
is possessed
by its almanac fictions

it cannot help you
by design

it will be a reach
to lift your own yoke

to march is not enough

you must stare
all cracker 
impulse
including your own
down

toss it a grenade’s worth
of humor then 
as it fumes

snatch away what you are owed

hurry into risk
rock it till it kneels

spoil it as best you can

hurry


First Decrees For The New World

Originally posted 3/14/2014.

From now on,
those who must

for the sake of family or form
mourn in public
a person they did not love,
one who may in fact have been
loathed and feared,
shall (after the funeral) be granted
a huge, selfish wish.

From now on,
those who must

in the presence of general or specific bigotry
bite their tongues to save a job and to provide
for their loved ones shall be granted 
one roundhouse swing at and full connection with 
a target of their choosing, and they shall get away
clean.

From this day forth,
those whose lives

have been slated for demolition, 
slotted for dimunition,
whose 
lives have regularly been broken
by the blows of ignorant policy,
shall be given keys to once-locked doors,
matches and gasoline to use as they see fit,
and violins
for something to do after
the burning 
begins.

This shall not be called “karma,”
as one 
should not have to wait
till the next life for recompense.  
This shall not be called
“revenge,” as there’s too much
to avenge and so much work to do
that can’t be done if vengeance 
takes hold.

This shall be called bookkeeping — 

accounts will be 
reckoned and settled,
with the balance owed 
to be determined 
by those to whom so much
is owed.


Gentrification Comes To The Hill

Each unit in this building has a clothesline outside
the back porch window.
On the clothesline at the far top left
hangs a white rayon shirt.
On the shirt, a majolica-styled rooster,
embroidered or screened on — hard to say from here.

I feel like I’m on deadline
to come up with a point here
about a cheap shirt and a tacky design
bellied out like a landlocked sail
over the backyard of a tenement
in my scarred and scrappy town,

like I should say “stop the presses!”
and insist that this is a story
that must be told, one of beauty
in the heart of ordinary, in the face
of what gets called “ugly” too often
by those who like their beauty

caged in an archival box, penned into
the richest part of the Cultural District
that was snatched out
from under the noses of those
who gave it culture
in the first place.

We aren’t far from there right now;
we’re miles from there right now
up on 
the Hill that hasn’t changed much
and won’t unless some folks decide
they like the view from up here,
and pass an ordinance to steal that view

and free it of rayon
and roosters 
and backyard chickens
and on-street parking and the wrong people. 
It feels like I’m on deadline to say all this
and it’s coming fast, if indeed
it hasn’t already passed.

If anything’s going to happen,
anything at all to keep that sail of a shirt
from billowing toward 
a good and lovely life
on our own terms, it feels like
we are almost out of time.


No More Slogans

No more slogans, poet —
your great good words of theory
have no rhythm,
are no generator
to charge a rebel’s heart.

 

No more slogans, poet —
to change them make them feel
both bullet and healing,
scent of blood and of
lily on the casket.

 

No more slogans, poet —
your time is closing;
they may take you soon. What
do you think we need most now —
your flag, or your fist?


Post-American Song

Originally posted 3/24/2012.

It’s of no larger importance how any one of us dies, including me —
the inevitability of the event is king
over the madness of the method  

Don’t care if it’s from gun or blade or germ
Don’t care but don’t want it to happen too soon
I know it will happen and I wish you could see it as I do

As wave of the star enveloping
As wave of the earth encompassing
As wave of the wind embracing

Then the next minute moment second instant
must be suddenly different — suddenly not this
All I want to know about that moment I cannot know

So I sit here speaking of death, fingers tapping, waiting
Oh the damn notion of all of us having to wait
You wait as you will but I will be calm and resigned to it

How we die is trivia though it does not feel so
Every death I’ve known has been in some way most trivial
Every individual an inconsequential body gone

(except — I admit — each was a wave
of earthquake within me that felt as large
as how I had loved them)

But I am the broken acolyte of continuance
Death and aging hollowed me out a long time ago
Now all  I yearn for is my choice of method

As wave of desire punctures my reluctance
In this country devoted to living forever
To never reading the sick bulletins of its unconscious satisfactions

I don’t care how any of us live, no
Live and let live is here practiced as apathy not compassion
Does it look the same when it’s not about love but instead about disinterest

I don’t care how anyone anywhere dies, no
Do you think that is awesome or troubling or false
Wave of suspicion engendering my breakdown

Come as you are, all of you
come incorrect
to the throne of mirrors

Look at AMERICA the hall of just in time history
AMERICA the holler the chorus the cadence
AMERICA the man in the trembling suit

Look at the gun in the hand of the —
what is it today anyway?
Who are the current heroes of our vigilante songs?

We don’t care how others die
as long as the lettuce
stays crisp

Method is ghost
is memory
is suggested mask for the inevitable

I am wearing the mask of a wave all-encompassing
I am wearing the mask of a wave of righteousness
I am wearing the mask askew from its moorings

I will take off this mask
and look at America
Wallflower with its back to the fourth wall

or is it behind me
watching the others
Is it in front of me on a player’s mark

I don’t care if it dies or how it dies
if it makes sense to the plot, no
I don’t see that death as being all that surprising

since I never believed
that the rockets and twilight should lead for certain
to dawn’s early light


A Little Bit Of History Repeating Itself

When I opened the door
to my wing of darker rooms,
I expected to let something out
but did not expect 
so much more to get in 
and make a home there.

When I broke into song
by the lake of fire, 
I expected to take heat
but I did not expect 
my lungs to become
so hard-scarred,
did not expect
my voice to become
so brittle.

When I eased my knives
back into the block
after butchering, I did not expect
that they would rattle me awake
night after night, hissing out
from their wooden slots,
“more, more, more…”

When I shook hands
with you, salt-hearted 
snake, rhymer for the offense,
herald and praiser of all that blood 
can destroy when it breaks loose,
I did not expect to end up
shaking for so long after
I let go of your hand.  
I did not expect you
to keep shaking me. Somehow,
I never expected
to become

such a weary fool,
such a well worn tool,

such a gleeful singer

of fire’s ancient song.


American Darkness

No darkness like
American darkness:

scalp in one fist, treaty in the other; it wears a stolen feather.

 

No darkness like American darkness.

We all know what’s under the bed; it wears a white hood.

No darkness like
American darkness:

it stinks of plastic
instead of ancient woods;

wears menace like a tumbling skyscraper,
not like a sacred mountain.

No darkness like
American darkness:

it doesn’t wear black,
but green;

it doesn’t even care
if you can see it.


Saving Tomorrow

to save tomorrow
we will have to
extend ourselves
beyond our skins

sabotage the tracks
we always ride upon
dance damage
in whirls of foul steam

breathe uncanny fumes 
from the mouth of hell
claim it for our cologne
waft it back at their sentinels

explain and explain
to ourselves
how we are the best church
we can belong to

how much self mastery
we shall need in the face
of the storms of laughter
from the throats of evil

coupled with abandonment
of our trivial principles of form
and substance just long enough
to shut that howling down

if we want to save tomorrow


Final

1.
A train leaves New York City

traveling west to Chicago

Another train leaves Chicago
traveling east to New York City
at the same time

Two trains leave Dallas
one for Chicago and one for New York
at the same time those other trains
leave their cities of origin

One person on each train is fleeing
someone else’s fists

At some point
each will look out a window and
exhale

Given identical average speeds for each train
how long will it take each of those four people
to transition into the feeling that they
have gone far enough

to call themselves
completely safe

2.
One Johnny
steals three apples
A different Johnny doesn’t

The police pull over Johnny the Latter
for looking (to them) enough like Johnny the Former
for government work

Someone gets hurt

Given the mental picture
you’ve made based on those facts
who are you

3.
If one demagogue 
defines a subset
how does the addition of a second demagogue

change the equation

You protest
Say that’s nothing we studied

You say you didn’t know any of these things
would be on the test

For bonus points
prove it

4.
No pilot 
bombs a village
but the village is bombed anyway

Taking into account all the variables
plot the arc of blame
Show your work

You say this isn’t fair

For bonus points
fix it

5.
If a train leaves New York City half empty

and travels away from there
at an average speed of 50 mph
stopping every 200 miles or so
to drop off and pick up passengers
but there is no net gain or loss
so the train remains half empty

and casual conversations barely arise among strangers
as everyone’s 
staring
at their phones or 
out the windows
alternately marveling 
and mumbling about the sights

and a second train does the same
and a third and a fourth

until there are one hundred trains 
all engaged in the same shuttle and shuffle
of mysterious Americans

back and forth across this landscape
and all the passengers have grown weary
of these terrible American mathematics 

Given all that 
at what point will it stop being flight
and become fight

At what point do you call it 
no longer an adventure
but a job

You say you’ll never use any of this in real life and
dammit
this won’t help you get by

I’m sorry
No extra credit is available on this question


Better Than Bullets

Snarls and wars and small divides
grown canyon wide and canyon deep;

scent of blood and old chains
not yet rusted through. Songs

are clashing; rough beats thump
artillery, soul wails sling arrows.

It’s late. Do you know where your children are
and what they’re listening to?

Pray they have fallen in love with dangerous
music. To slide into sleep

on a comfortable lullaby is a sure path to 
waking up in hell.

Don’t trust
those who say music should be harmless.

There’s a war on and songs
are better ammunition 

than bullets. Songs
change their targets. Songs

sluice their way
through far more than flesh,

cut deeper, break more walls,
tear down more defenses.

What are your children listening to?
If it doesn’t scare you, 

they are almost certainly
doing it wrong.


My Pocket, My Hope

In my pocket, 
my imaginary country,

a best version
of this one; I carry it

with me tightly 
wrapped in hope.

It’s currently populated by
dinosaurs who emerge

as gentle as 
a hurricane’s far-side

sunlight filtering into
destroyed 

familiarity. If you see
them lumbering

into your path you
will be instantly changed

and unsure: what
is this?

What sorcery is this
that cures

both extinction and
gigantism? If you 

mean that you want
to know and are not just 

disbelieving your own eyes,
I will

point simply at the hope
and say it’s been there

all along, the magic
which when worked

can change all,
raising the long-thought dead

from a pocket
where it’s been kept

safe against 
battering and bring it back

to a sustainable form
and thus save a ravaged landscape.