brief thoughts on distance

sitting on my parents porch
smoking pot
at a considerable distance
from the revolution raging.
at the same time i want to shatter the normal
i want to live in the pane of it.
the glass normal.
very frail.
please
throw
those
revolutionary stones. 

hesiod's works and days (a reading by glenn beck) WORK IN PROGRESS

america, america
how many times
can i repeat your name,
america,
and have you still mean the same thing?

america,
I've read hitler and I've read hesiod
and
I've seen the riots in greece and france
and
I'm racked with guilt about the new world order
because I consider it the worst kind of evil
and I know all about the worst kind of evil.
its heavy, like the sixties, america
and it won't leave you alone
until you smoother your children with
memory foam pillows
until you strangle your grandparents with
the tubes from their ventilators
until each and every one of us forgets
about the original intention.

The original intention, america.
I know all about the original intention.
I know all about margret sanger and the family unit.
I know all about g. bernie shaw and the killing camps.
I know all about Abraham and the twelfth imam.
I choose issac and I'd do it again.
I choose israel and truth.
I choose the objective because there isn't any other.
I choose freedom because my mother committed suicide when I was 13.
I won't lend anyone a hand who couldn't help me in the end.
and america
the end is close.

america,
I've put in my time.
I've signed my name.  twice.
but in baltimore.
but in philadelphia.
but in detriot.
but in camden.
but in compton.
but in new orleans.
but in the bronx.
there are cultural problems.
there are handguns in the streets
and cars on fire.
and you can't go fishing with Jimmy Stewart
or hunting with hank williams jr
and beer costs too much in the cities anyway.
and america
the end is close.

come out and stay
your last few days
in a bunker made of concrete.
i've got freeze dried food
to last a few weeks
and after that we'll see.

from the distant countryside,
goodnight america

oh, the oul a priori argument again.
i don't buy it.
which part?
all of it.
any of it.
there's none of that stuff.
that priori stuff.
none of it, but saying that there is
makes things make sense
in a real
simple
way
and don't we all like simple.

a stunt

sometimes things get delayed.
that went well.
it is a tricky thing
to manage
sometimes.
better that nobody knows.
these things happen.
technical things.
technological in nature.
logical, but in the technical sense of the thing.
fucker. there was a night
when
the only way
to continue the play
was to try
even if it don't make sense. what was
that line?
and what is the important lesson? what is the
audience suppose to sense, seeing you
talking through a television set, Macbeth
and the murders.
wait for it.
wait for it.

A two part poem by Ian Christie

Day / Night #1

Often I wake

early mornings—crack of dawn

unlatch my window

and watch the shift change:

conveyor belt to breadline

and back again

each morning—crack of dawn

I let my head fall

until the bridge

of my nose is pressed hard

against knuckles and skin

8 million coffee pots, jack hammers,

garbage trucks, street sweepers—

The city is tickled from her stupor

And somewhere in the new sun

the “I” changes

Not ocularis

but me.

Capillaries fill and expand;

I am 20 feet tall,

then a hundred.

I could step down

from my fourth floor window

right onto the pavement

Start ripping the tops

from supermarkets

and punching holes

through bank vaults

gather everything up

in my great big arms;

I feel my great big heart beating wildly.

I’d give it away!

I don’t want any of it!

I’d give it all away!

See if the shift change still happened

each morning—crack of dawn

But I’m stuck,

my body having grown so large

too quickly:

one arm reaches through the door

and down the hall;

the other has punched through the brick

and is now waving at the car wash men down below

and my feet have plowed right through

these cheap tenement walls

all plaster and lathe

and now occupy

Poor Ms. Lopez’ kitchen;

she attacks them ferociously,

thinking they’ve finally come for her—

Doesn’t much matter

if it’s the devil or the INS

They’ll get you in this life

or the next!

Day / Night #2

Often before sleep

I unlatch my window

and crane my neck

to watch the passersby,

each movement rendered red

under the faithful hum

of LED light:

“12 pk. bottled water for $10.99!”

What do you mean you buy that ‘cause you like the taste?
my faucet gives me only rust, so fuck you!

Again, the “I” changes,

but quietly this time,

pulls out until I’m somewhere beyond the atmosphere;

my skin shrivels in the cold

There’s not so much glory in my heart anymore,

so what if my brain cracks electric

a billion times a second?

All of a sudden

I am very small

Like space opened up

along a deep fault:

groaned, yawned, and said

to everyone in a shouted whisper:

Gig’s up!

cosmic subversion trench

but for the briefest moment

space-walk-boog-a-loo

Ashbery in Key West

Reading his Chinese Whispers in 2003.

lil late on the chef's new train

wu - wait for ghost's verse