To all the days of my life drowning in smokeHaystacks of post it notes—calibrated looseness as kindlingCampfires as water coolers—conversations around campfires gone water cooler: you see this show? You see that show? You play this video game? That? Any? None? Aren’t you a man? To my days spent getting up to restPlanning relaxation in structure Cell phone buzzing the freedom setsFive hours to chillNow four Now threeTwoNothing done worth speaking of To grammar rules formed in the Enlightenment cutting the heart off from the waywardness of expression—two negatives a positive—a contradictionAnd the heart slams never no none not nah never and keeps itself from canceling negative To the hippies who read Ginsberg and betrayed himWho bought RVs to see the country they destroyed in the jobs they created after cutting their hair and swapping Hendrix records for Billy Graham sermons To the hippies who tripped on LSD and thought multinationals were the bliss of god, who covered their eyes when the 70s hit And America took revenge for Haight-Ashbury To the oil crisis 70s—the terror starting 70s—the union hating 70s—the preparatory ground for the Reagan 80s and the death of the common man as a hero in the mind of the common man To the common man, a now fat son of America—gut hanging over a cheap belt built in China, a land he hates—belt holding up cheap denim made in Mexico, a land he hates—denim covering now fat legs—legs made fat by McDonalds—by cheap food fast food for an overworked common man No leisure for the commonNo reflection for the commonNo attachment for the commonFree only to see what another showsFree only to hear what a magic screen singsIn no other way freeNeither to read or sit or think or ask or discussNeither free to discuss the commands of uppers on the jobUppers who cut him from working by way of an email commandUppers who insult him as their station dictatesInsult him by calling him familyCalling him family and cutting him by email To the common man who chose the commonWho kept middle class roads in mute angerWho refused the poetry of existenceWho thought tech and upper assurance could stop the turning of time—who believed in Jesus under the actions of AresWho thought Satan lived in the ghettoWho threw money at faith healersWho threw money at television JesusWho threw money at sports teamsWho threw money at bbq grills and weird food made from chemicals and super hero advertising To the poets—poets never commonTo the poets—shapeshifters of existenceTo the poets—wounded by the death of Whitman wounded by the death of Kerouac wounded by the death of Anais Nin wounded by Hemingway putting a shotgun to his teeth wounded by Hart Crane and man overboard By Ginsberg dyingBy Ginsberg dyingBy Ginsberg dyingAnd what do we do know and where do we go and Hunter S Thompson killed himself and David Foster Wallace and they left us Dave Barry and poet laureates who should have said no to a government post Poets I adore youPoets I evaporate myself in youPoets I live in your vowel spacesPoets I drink your consonants like red wineNaira I live in your versesNayyirah I live in your versesRomila I live in your versesTapiwa I live in your versesBD I live in your versesPunk-Ass I live in your versesAll women I liveAll men I live I keep from killing myselfI search the beat againI smell the deep fireI hear the ocean vibe rollingI say to you I keep from killing myselfKeep from the common man keep from the hippy keep from the uppers keep from fast food keep from grammar rules keep from fake Jesus with an Ares look keep from preachers with pay me palms keep from water coolers and AMC conversations keep from 9 hour video game sessionsKeep from sitting all dayKeep from sitting Keep from sending hate mail to those who hate meWho will not push themselvesWho want popularityWho want the look and noticeHere. Take it. Have it.All my noticeAll my notesTake it have itI give it to you angry menI give it to you freely To all my new loves and old lovesNew friends now oldTimeless in my heartDo not dieDo not let your verses dieI weep when you doI weep California streets welcome youWhen I come into my own I will build a place for youWhen the last song is set to catalogue itselfWhen the last line is hammered out in pain and joyYou will have a yes from meA day of rich soil will wait for youCome and lay yourself downRise up yourself in offshoot new
Posted on: Mon, 17 Jun 2013 07:14:18 +0000
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