Free
Verse
Nonpolitical Poetry
The thing
about
poetry is you can
say anything you
damn well please
in any way
you please
you can say fuck this
political system
you can say anyone
who at this
point in time
that does not think
the american way
of life is dead wrong
is a sad and lost soul
you may think this is a
political statement
but you’re dead wrong too
‘cause this is about as
nonpolitical
as it gets
Poetry,
Status Quo, & Baseball
doing this for
nothing,
like the rest of you
but i get
waylaid for not
writing like
the status quo ...
fuck the status quo
i can’t buy a can
of beans
with this poem
as i listen to the
world series
on the radio
because it’s
no longer on non cable
tv
you got to be able
to afford to watch
america’s favorite
pastime
Dedication
We must
massacre a
corrupt culture, to set
the upsidedown
rightsideup. We must
look for the face of God
in everyone, in everything,
to give poetry a reason and
purpose beyond the
puny ego.
It’s Best
To Purchase A Copy So You Get
An Idea Of What We Are About
I’m so full of
other
people’s poetry,
I want to read
only blind music
for about a week,
and sit on the commode.
I paid for the magazines
to get a look see,
to search for some truth,
or a firm shift of earth.
What I uncover are some half truths maybe,
and piss running up hill,
nothing more for the sweat
of my hard earned bucks.
No Celine writing white lightning
behind a set of flaming
eye balls.
I can’t find any Rimbaud
running a two minute mile, still
moaning without shame for Verlaine.
None of the pages reveal
Amira Baraka
ridding a crazy, bug-ass whale.
I look for e.e. cummings slam dunking,
playing against five seven footers,
on a bumpy blacktop court in the south Bronx.
And where the hell is Bukowski
with a Boeing engine
stuck in his powder blue volks,
cruising down Sunset boulevard drunk
at three hundred miles an hour?
A Picture
Is Worth A Waste Of My Time
Stunning,
there on the front of
the magazine,
dressed in black
and white.
There she is, looking
like a nun,
looking
like a kinky uptown whore.
Inside, her poems
sputter and pout
about how she doesn’t care
what others think
of her.
She says it so many times, in
so many tedious ways,
that you know she is obsessed
about
what others think
of her.
Her sexy picture on the front got
my attention, and I feel a little
embarrassed
about that.
On The
Outside Chance Of Light
The moon has a
classical huge
yellowness, in an otherwise
blackness of
universe; not a slight
flicker of light
anywhere the eyes
can reach. The only light
is the moonlight,
which shines down on souls
who are brutally
transported from
relative freedom
to chattel-captivity.
All diagrams in the blood printed
revulsion of political lies,
constructions of
betrayals and the most depraved murderers
imaginable. The foxhole
believers are those
just along for the ride: spiritual vampires,
assassins, generals, sell outs,
billionaires, bottom feeders, assorted ass lickers,
who all muddle up the muck of
so-called reality. You can only trust
in the unspoken, the invisible, and
the truth in the yellow
light of the moon.
The Only
News I’ve Heard From The Poets
The poets
send me
postcards
from hell
saying the
weather is
fine and
they wish
I was
there. The
pictures on the
postcards
are counterfeit
shots of
Dante chatting
calmly with
Wormwood.
I
know personally
that Dante’s
in heaven
right now,
having an
intense talk with
John Milton
about literary elitism.
Besides,
they’re both
too damn polite
and serene
to be sending me
wiseass
postcards.
Attending
A Poetry Reading At The Local College
What good does
poetry do? Can it stop the
wailing of the tormented? Can it end
the continual political slaughter of
millions from war, starvation,
abortion, capital punishment, racial
genocide, or territorial domination?
Poets still sit in the coffeehouses and
bars in America,
talking like badass street fighters,
though few
have ever thrown a punch
and probably wouldn’t know how to make a fist:
publishing in the
little mags only
they read, and,
to each other. They’re
content like everyone
to get drunk and
talk shit.
In other countries they lined poets up against the wall
and shot them down
like wooden ducks in a shooting gallery
or imprisoned them like wild animals
for speaking out against
the State,
for publishing poems of
protest
and dissension,
for standing up
for truth
and human
justice.
Poets in America suck on the tit of academic,
curdled lies, defending the “artistic freedom”
of submerging an image
of Christ in a bottle of urine.
