Homing Instincts

The city's only secondarily for people;
first it's for pigeons,
their coorooktoo spiralling into rafters,
their improbable orange eyes,
the way they hide when death comes.
Their leavings on our monuments show
what they think of our generals, our war
dead, our public benefactors, our abstract art.
Feathers of rainbow grit and bone, skittish, them-toed,
they haunt the homely streets
and, after sudden noises, the lumpy air
and, whether or not we notice, us.

-Joanne Merriam

Rodential Waltzes in the Green Sepulchrous Kitchen

The ______ in its woody twin radar
cap applies non-transitive logic to
nocturnal fluorescence. Across the
proto-landfill of your unwashed
crockery. Perpetually both sixteen
and forty-five years old, the ______
plasters its walls with automobile
posters and chews through the Globe
and Mail with a dyspeptic
insouciance genetically encoded as
pornography. The whine of its
gyroscopic transmission contributes
as much to the microcosm of urban
blight as do the precautionary
accommodations we secrete around
it.

Here’s a game we can discuss
a game that we can:

furry animal with furry tail leaping across the candlestick breadcrust

Yes, a mouse.
In the kitchen.
Clattering along the linoleum and
Tunnels in the wains cot
Wain scot.

Scoot. A trap loaded with peanut butter.
(The brand name of this trap
Victory. Which is significant.
Victory in the campaign to
control the kitchen. In the campaign
not to share the kitchen.)

Observation: “The mouse ate the peanut butter right out of the trap.”
Response: “This time.”

Diving from behind the telephone wheels spinning by my footsteps.

The mouse chewed: a T4 form
a branflake box
a vitamin bottle
a tupperware sugarsaver

The kitchen kill ratio close to that of
the U.S. & co./Iraq war/massacre.
The mouse opposes a formidable
battery of hi-tech paraphernalia:
ultrasonic repellents, cage and crush
traps, food borne poisons, with a
single weapon: surprise. Leaping out
from butter dishes and sealed
drawers, the mouse must sufficiently
startle her adversary that seizure and
cardiac arrest ensue. While this is
fairly easy to accomplish, it induces
fatality only in rare and isolated
instances.

Insert Nursery Rhyme reference if desired.

The mouse chewed: a refrigerator compressor
a microwave turntable
food processor blades
the strings of my heart
(which went Zing!)

Rustlerustlerustle. Trottrot.

No floursack is safe. Spoor
radar the human mouser. Combing
combing the wheatgerm. These are
very large mousekins with indefatigable
rodentteeth. Chewing the human imposed
edifice artifice. Negotiate
human.
While there’s still time.

-Ken Howe

Conversationally Speaking

The river enriches the soil for planting.
The river is the donor of riches. The sty, however,
is full of dirt (the pigs might see this differently --
planting their feet, their snouts). The pig
is the ultimate donor of pork, which is to say
it has no rival. We avoid thinking of it this way.
We avoid the (thought of the) sty; hence the separation
from lunchmeat. We like better the smell
of bread (daily, given, whole) done up in the style
of a braid, pure product of the soil.
It is wise to avoid the void, which is nothing really
like the river, the sty, or the emptied bakery
window (its closest rival). Instead
we could relax by the river, picnic on meat
and bread, or just bread--pigtails are kin
to braids--since eating pork's gone out of style

-Jeanne Marie Beaumont

Down the River

Let’s go now, boys, down the river
where the blue herons stalk through the cane
and beaver swim against the current,
quiet, strong, steady as the river;
where the slick amber walls of sandstone
lean over the brown god’s flow, rising up straight
into light and a thousand feet of vibrant space-

(withdraw)

That’s for us: sandbars and reedy islands,
deep still canyons leading into peace,
glens with clear springs, the plume of tamarisk,
silence, clarity, the sharp prints of deer
on the shore, down from the mesas beyond.

Bring your girls, your bibles, your poems
And children, bring in your souls’ and hearts’ courage
To search and hope, and prepare, and wait,
While the world we knew drowns slowly
But with sure increasing certainty
Into its predetermined swamp of madness.

(withdraw withdraw)

Once there we will build on rock
a house of stone that will outlast
all of their wars and furies, their carnivals of despair,
keeping on the hearth a fire of juniper
and wild scrub oak to warm the hall
and praise your eyes, your speech, your hands,
saving some part of the old virtue

(withdraw withdraw withdraw)

Until the smoke clears and the time comes
to leave the wilderness and build at last
on the poor black battered plains of man
that visionary city of the prophecies.

-Edward Abbey, September 1963 - Sunset Crater, Arizona

West Coast Poem

since i had
a few extra bucks
i decided
to take the ferry
from Vancouver
to Victoria.

2 hours
of smelling
the open
ocean.

a much different scent
than the ocean
which rests
on the edges
of city
beaches.

there’s no suntan lotion
or car exhaust
in the air.

there’s just
the ferry
churning up
the aqua water
& pushing the salt
up your nostrils.

purity.

i stepped off
the bus
in downtown
Victoria
& walked along
its red brick sidewalks
until i found
that famous bookstore
named after
some famous
Canadian writer
i’ve never read.

i lost some money
to an old man
sitting on
a street corner
in 4 or 5
games of chess.

i bought
some marijuana
off a kid
with a skateboard.

then i sat on the beach
smelling
the polluted ocean,
got high
& watched
my loneliness

become
tangible.

-Chris Kornacki

Black Sun

to lie alone in the desert
and stare at the sun
until the sun goes black...

Black sun, black sun of my heart-
Strike down your shaking blaze of fire
Eat up my eyes and brain
Burn me clean and dry of all desire.

Black, black, sun in my heart-
Rain down your murderous love
Your flash and carbon, cancer and heat
Bake me sweet as a dove

Sweet as a stone, black as a bird
Flay me with fire to the bone
Wrap me and wash me in flame
And leave me clean and alone

On the lost shore of a river I know
In the strange-lit country of stone.

-Edward Abbey

Capitol Air

I don’t like the government where I live
I don’t like dictatorship of the Rich
I don’t like bureaucrats telling me what to eat
I don’t like Police dogs sniffing round my feet

I don’t like Communist Censorship of my books
I don’t like Marxists complaining about my looks
I don’t like Castro insulting members of my sex
Leftists insisting we got the mystic Fix

I don’t like Capitalists selling me gasoline Coke
Multinationals burning Amazon trees to smoke
Big Corporation takeover media mind
I don’t like the Top-bananas that’re robbing Guatemala banks bling

I don’t like K.G.B. Gulag concentration camps
I don’t like the Maoists’ Cambodian Death Dance
20 Million were killed by Stalin Secretary of Terror
He has killed our old Red Revolution for ever

I don’t like Anarchists screaming Love Is Free
I don’t like the C.I.A. they killed John Kennedy
Paranoic tanks sit in Prague and Hungary
But I don’t like counterrevolution paid for by the C.I.A.

Tyranny in Turkey or Korea Nineteen Eighty
I don’t like Right Wing Death Squad Democracy
Police State Iran Nicaragua yesterday
Laissez-faire please Government keep your secret police offa me

I don’t like Nationalist Supremecy White or Black
I don’t like Narcs & Mafia marketing Smack
The General bullying Congress in his tweed vest
The President building up his Armies in the East & West

I don’t like the Crown’s Official Secrets Act
You can get away with murder in the Government that’s a fact
Security cops teargassing radical kids
In Switzerland or Czechoslovakia God Forbids

In America was Attica in Russia was Lubianka Wall
In China if you disappear you wouldn’t know yourself at all
Arise Arise you citizens of the world use your lungs
Talk back to the Tyrants all they’re afraid of is your tongues

Two hundred Billion dollars inflates World War
In United States every year They’re asking for more
Russia’s had as much in tanks and laser planes
Give or take Fifty Billion we could blow out everybody’s brains

School’s broke down ‘cause History changes every night
Half the Free World nations are Dictatorships of the Right
Socialism worked in Scandanavia, Bud
The Communist world was stuck together with prisoners’ blood

The Generals say they know something worth fighting for
They never say what till they start an unjust war
Iranian hostage Media hysteria sucked
The Shah ran away with 9 Billion Iranian bucks

Kermit Roosevelt and his U.S. dollars overthrew Mossadegh
They wanted his oil then they got Ayatollah’s dreck
They put in the Shah and they trained his police the Savak
All Iran was our hostage quarter-century That’s right Jack

Bishop Romero wrote President Carter to stop
Sending guns to El Salvador’s Junta so he got shot
Ambassador White House blew the whistle on the White House lies
Reagan called him home cause he looked in the dead nuns’ eyes

Half the voters didn’t vote they knew it was too late
Newspaper headlines called it a big Mandate
Some people voted for Reagan eyes open wide
3 out of 4 didn’t vote for him That was a Landslide

Truth may be hard to find but Falsehood’s easy
Read between the lines out Imperialism is sleazy
But if you think the People’s State is your Heart’s Desire
Jump right back in the frying pan from the fire

The System the System in Russia now China the same
Criticize the System in Budapest lose your name
Coca Cola Pepsi Cola in Russia & China come true
Khrushchev yelled in Hollywood “We will bury You”

America and Russia wanted to bomb themselves Okay
Everybody dead on both sides Everybody pray
All except the General in caves where they can hide
And fuck each other in the ass waiting for the next free ride

No hope Communism no hope Capitalism Yeah
Everybody’s lying on both sides Nyeah nyeah nyeah
The bloody iron curtain of American Military Power
Was a mirror image of Russia’s red Babel-Tower
Jesus Christ was spotless but was Crucified by the Mob
Law & Order Herod’s hired soldiers did the job
Flowerpower’s fine but innocence has got no Protection
The man who shot John Lennon had a Hero-worshipper’s connection

The moral of this song is that the world is in a horrible place
Scientific Industry devours the human race
Police in every country armed with Tear Gas & TV
Secret Masters everywhere bureaucratize for you & me

Terrorists and police together build a lowerclass Rage
Propaganda murder manipulates the upperclass Stage
Can’t tell the difference ‘tween a turkey & a provocateur
If you’re feeling confused the Government’s in there for sure

Aware Aware wherever you are No Fear
Trust your heart Don’t ride your Paranoia dear
Breathe together with an ordinary mind
Armed with Humor Feed & Help Enlighten Woe Mankind

-Allen Ginsberg, Dec 15, 1980

Mirror

I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
Whatever I see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful-
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.

Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she actually is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.

-Sylvia Plath

Today

Same deal as last post

Dead Fish Washed Ashore

This is a poem that somebody scribbled on construction paper and taped up at a drum circle I was at this winter. I'm not sure who wrote it, but I liked it a lot.

Cotton and Corn

Said Cotton to Corn, t'other day,
As they met and exchang'd salute--
(Squire Corn in his carriage so gay,
Poor Cotton, half famish'd on foot):


"Great Squire, if it isn't uncivil
To hint at starvation before you,
Look down on a poor hungry devil,
And give him some bread, I implore you!"


Quoth Corn, then, in answer to Cotton,
Perceiving he meant to make free --
"Low fellow, you've surely forgotten
The distance between you and me!


To expect that we, Peers of high birth,
Should waste our illustrious acres,
For no other purpose on earth
Than to fatten curst calico-makers! --


That Biships to hobbins should bend --
Should stoop from their Bench's sublimity,
Great dealers in lawn, to befriend
Such contemptible dealers in dimity!


"No -- vile Manufacture! ne'er harbour
A hope to be fed at our boards; --
Base offspring of Arkwright the barber,
What claim canst thou have upon Lords?

"No -- thanks to the taxes and debt,
And the triumph of paper o'er guineas,
Our race of Lord Jemmys, as yet,
May defy your whole rabble of Jennys!"


So saying -- whip, crack and away
Went Corn in his chaise through the throng,
So headlong, I heard them all say,
"Squire Corn would be down, before long."

-Thomas Moore

The Surgeon at 2 A.M.

The white light is artificial, and hygienic as heaven.
The microbes cannot survive it.
They are departing in their transparent garments, turned aside
From the scalpels and the rubber hands.
The scalded sheet is a snowfield, frozen and peaceful.
The body under it is in my hands.
As usual there is no face. A lump of Chinese white
With seven holes thumbed in. The soul is another light.
I have not seen it; it does not fly up.
Tonight it has receded like a ship's light.

It is a garden I have to do with --- tubers and fruit
Oozing their jammy substances,
A mat of roots. My assistants hook them back.
Stenches and colors assail me.
This is the lung-tree.
These orchids are splendid. They spot and coil like snakes.
The heart is a red bell-bloom, in distress.
I am so small
In comparison to these organs!
I worm and hack in a purple wilderness.

The blood is a sunset. I admire it.
I am up to my elbows in it, red and squeaking.
Still it seeps me up, it is not exhausted.
So magical! A hot spring
I must seal off and let fill
The intricate, blue piping under this pale marble.
How I admire the Romans ---
Aqeducts, the Baths of Caracella, the eagle nose!
The body is a Roman thing.
It has shut its mouth on the stone pill of repose.

It is a statue the orderlies are wheeling off.
I have perfected it.
I am left with an arm or a leg,
A set of teeth, or stones
To rattle in a bottle and take home,
And tissues in slices--a pathological salami.
Tonight the parts are entombed in an icebox.
Tomorrow they will swim
In vinegar like saints' relics.
Tomorrow the patient will have a clean, pink plastic limb.

Over one bed in the ward, a small blue light
Announces a new soul. The bed is blue.
Tonight, for this person, blue is a beautiful color.
The angels of morphia have borne him up.
He floats an inch from the ceiling,
Smelling the dawn drafts.
I walk among sleepers in gauze sarcophagi.
The red night lights are flat moons. They are dull with blood.
I am the sun, in my white coat,
Grey faces, shuttered by drugs, follow me like flowers.

-Sylvia Plath

Siren Song

This is the one song everyone
would like to learn: the song
that is irresistible:

the song that forces men
to leap overboard in squadrons
even though they see beached skulls

the song nobody knows
because anyone who has heard it
is dead, and the others can’t remember.

Shall I tell you the secret
and if I do, will you get me
out of this bird suit?

I don’t enjoy it here
squatting on this island
looking picturesque and mythical

with these two feathery maniacs,
I don’t enjoy singing
this trio, fatal and valuable.

I will tell the secret to you,
to you, only to you.
Come closer. This song

is a cry for help: Help me!
Only you, only you can,
you are unique

at last. Alas
it is a boring song
but it works every time.

-Margaret Atwood