SIGH
Pages don't turn till flipped,
Sighs don't heave, lips quiver first.
Leaves in the sky, flagpole in the mist,
tremble, waft, sail, drift, stutter
to rest at your feet.
I've sensed this dilemma,
as you sipped my wine,
sitting on a metaphor,
that was not mine,
that whatever you gave
was only for a time,
and not forever.
BUNGEE RADICAL DREAM
I had a dream . . .
Toothless sonofabitch,
frothing with ballistic radical chic,
(and girl in tow),
swung into my crotch last week.
Bungee-jumping babyboomerlette,
discoverer of anything-goes left,
assailed me with hairless hip,
culled from paperback rebel script.
Working man's power defender,
Had just discovered loss-of-power,
From major to minor,
He was mad as thunder!
(and mother was livid too, yes).
"I am dejected, I am depressed,"
he said, like Cole Porter,
for this apparent lack of desire,
to cojoin his flaming fire.
(In the rear, rude dancehall song,
with stolen, sampled riffs,
drowns out longtime, skankin' lics).
Artnits with asses on fire,
Crew-cut brains, ponytail looks,
Sit awkward,
To discuss new martyr virus,
that puts clap to shame.
(And sonofabitch froths more).
Blow it, bomb it, run it over,
till it satisfy the me.
Then I will edit,
freeze and jump it,
till it does what it does for me.
Radical op ed man bellows threats
in all cardinal directions,
"For me, for me, for me."
he will cry and whisper
till the system satisfies he,
(or revolution is brought to its knees).
And in that same time, same city,
Clinton marines take Baidowa,
with script from CNN,
Martin Sewmungle in hasty tow,
Hoop jumping monkey men,
baldheads, skinheads all,
race to demolish our common heritage,
no protest, no song,
from moonman Mr. Me.
DRUMPOEM
Deng-da-de-deng
Bubudi-budi
everyone's been lying
and going to heaven
he hill on the rise,
drum dance story
tight on the skin
no stretch the truth
no catch, no beat.
Dengda-de-deng
bubudi-budi
true pulse that
cuts to the bone
skin 'n blood
singe on stone
lies can't tell
truth can't hide
true tone
tell the story,
play the attack
one more time
Bubudi-budi
budi-bu
Live but not alive
the tube and la presse
tell the story
in shaman tones.
bubudi-budi
budi-boo
the drum beats
in single tones.
Heaven's door stays closed
till you stretch the skin,
so much more.
Bubudi budi
budibu.
I BIN HAD-EN AND NOW BIN LADEN
I crack up some summer mornings
spit a gob into my pillow case,
bilious phalanx rising.
Throat choking on acid reflux ridges,
thinking limping
right this moment
nato be liberating
muslims in kosovo
from serbs tanks
russian subs
and lovemaking
belgrade filmbuffs.
I crack up winter nights,
thinking, tears soaking,
drewcarey watching,
kurds in turkey?
timorese in timor?
kashmiris in the valley?
shiites in chicago and --
wahabis in chechen, tommorow?
For a hundred years, no less,
butchered, maimed,
tired, all the same,
pathan on bangali,
punjabi on sindhi
muslim on mussalman
orangoutan's long powertool
dredging, sawing
working night and day . . .
But! Sam Bill never show up
liberatin' all the way?
(This is an essay. Prose, not poetry.
My hangover is over. My retching
stop on the paragraph, edited out.
The Muslim cause is crescent sacred,
pitches tented by emirate chieftains,
in desert tainted. Oily. Rose petals, dancing girls
halwa bellies flopping.
Help the fugees, albanese horsethieves,
don mastaan gandoo hero
Croat smuggler chief trained by the company
on the macedonia border,
with apache copters,
to save the kla brotherhood.)
Noriega, Sadam, Bin Laden
Contra, Medellin mob, Mobutu
Pinochet, all in the pay once
now in the dirt.
Paydirt.
Except Bin Laden
Saladin Nato Bin Laden Amar rahe!
THE END