father with hand on clutch,
a barge with smoke and steam
wed to our pickup dash,
the sun bright on the river.
Nettles in my rash
booze burning in my liver,
childhoods where whites ruled.
Now just more monkey talk,
the masses cucked and fooled.
The corn cob is but stalk,
no corn or yellow kernel.
The bream bleeds from the gill,
the smiling old white colonel
has his front gate and fill.
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A Nazi lie and Hitler’s plot? —
Twelve thousand Polish officers rot,grandsons of Sobieski’s lancers,reactionary anti-Semites,too dead to reach for thoughts or guns,or, in the fragrant dark of spring nights,to father patriotic sons.
The valley sinks into the mist;
eclipses the cornea of the sun;the ridge blooms purple on my wrist,fading, inimical and black.The earth exhales into the dusk,frost forming in the shaded huskof afterglows. My wine and sackmy only friends, I hear the callof hovering owls, as stars drift down.A hawk upon a bough, no townhigh or below, I wait for Fall.
They built each city and each dam,
to master heaven, earth and sea,in love with money, Marx, or Lamb?Yet, all we’ve dug up and see noware ruins, wrecks and skeletons,black plastic garbage bags by tons,a billboard with a smiling cow.Their love, hate, honour and disgrace?—abstractions to us who’ve come faracross time, galaxy and star.We’re not piqued by the human race.Their lives and…
Let us go to the station
sprayed with graffiti.Let us take a ghost train,jump cargos to Chicago,with shiny fin-tailed cars.Let us forget the needleson the spent floor, rentthe squatters never paid.Let us wave to the girl,blonde, grinning on her Schwinn,in Wonder Bread Indiana.Let us place our right handson our hearts: the smell of tarwill mock our pledge with drums,with monkey taps…
Gay Pride is raised, and Dixie’s down.
has it lit to reflect his crown.Ms. Jenner’s teats swell in her blouse.Burrs prick the sky in Baltimore,more melons ripen in the South.The US of old is no more.The racist straight must shut his mouth.We are all now confederate,with midnight spangled overhead,although beyond, cold, temperate,the stars say the dawn will be red.
Milosz lies on his death bed,
awake in a grey roomwhere there’s no night or day—a Swedenborgianself-sentenced heaven-hell.I stand nearby the window.He says: “I’ve always knownI am the greatest poet.”I answer: “I feel the sameabout my humble self.And what about God? ”With stern hawkish eyes,he looks at me and says:“Electricity! ”