_ the history of punk and punketariat and poetry...
__________
the history of a strange subjectivity of making and making for yourself.
making things for yourself
things that work and don't always work or work after breaking apart,
or juxtapose the cats, the old records and the nylons hanging across the room
in that collage of containment room on Debullion
_______
prism <=> shareacoke
global
data surveillance
expanded to cans
biometrical gurgling patterns
expose urban
thoughts
happy poem of glorious statehood
let us celebrate replacement
with equally questionable
leaders parties and their hidden
machines agendas and arrogance
undoing the fabric and beliefs
undoing the trust and hopes
for reasonable profit expectations
—army as advance goodness
in public relations preparing
occupied for incoming business
let us celebrate our elected awfuls’
control of the nation’s re-imaging
repositioning downward pride
ongoing record of human wrongs
against people whose lands
we occupy wrong and not free
against women students workers
children artists and scholars
—let us not replicate khmer rouge
pogrom in land of red maple leaf
—Joe Blades
WHAT DO I KNOW?
in the sand
by the sacred sea
there is a light
you must seek
buried for decades
perhaps longer
it is the glow
of the metallic taste
left in your mouth
when you rode
ten thousand whales
from your beginning
to your end
it is sharp yet delicate
it casts no shadow
it will wait
for you to uncover it
by the sacred sea
there is a light
you must seek
buried for decades
perhaps longer
it is the glow
of the metallic taste
left in your mouth
when you rode
ten thousand whales
from your beginning
to your end
it is sharp yet delicate
it casts no shadow
it will wait
for you to uncover it
forgiveness on the range
broke a tone, samovar, it’s in the reading
of the liber mortuis where stabilization resides,
where the path brokers a time a place—
a memory of aristocracy’s station. I abstracted
an eye for you, a compassion—stereoscopic
vision, carry forward the impossibilities,
race me for some tacos, arrested with foresight,
comrades, sputter—but never forgive!
.
O! You scrounge!
O! You scrounge!
Blathering! The past
punches your shoulder, taps youin the solar plexus,again another shotto the sternum,appendectomywith a mattock—rough stigmas foldthe body in half, time bursts assignments,
which open again, ascend to the source,
on a liquid stream, a ladder,
Heaven’s voice.
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