Tag Archives: Revolution

Fourth of July 2018

What to thinking Americans is this

Holiday of our state’s independence

The ironies at this time are adrift

Pointing out avarice’s impudence

I wish that people would read histories

By our pasts’ repressed & hidden subjects

Then today there’d be fewer mysteries

To a more just & fair future construct

But our history’s been corporatized

Expressing only moments of triumph

Therefore justice warriors are resized

So not to diminish marketing’s “UMPH!”

Today there’s a frightened American

Who thinks only might makes us “great again”

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Street Philosopher’s Sonnet



Nights we hung out darkening the corner

Debating our angry impoverished souls

Solving everybody’s problems (but ours)

Getting absolutely none of our goals

We discussed our materialism

How we’d be willing to forgo some things

“Sacrifices” hid our nihilism

So under the streetlights we could take swigs

Our idealism enriches us

With the superiority of youth

Though our western lives have more than enough

We feel obliged to lament third world truth

Street lights shine over ghetto communion

Where Idealists meet in their unions

Resistance is Poetry

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Resistance is Illegible

Resistance is illegible/
No agenda to fulfill/
It is screamed to re-used beats/
& spray painted on public streets

Resistance isn’t public yet/
It’s outside communication/
Strangers’ loud dissatisfaction/
Mumbled in different versions/

Resistance has no address yet/
It couch surfs those acquaintances’/
That know things could be tolerable/
In alleyways and cubicles/

Resistance is inchoate still/
It is Demand’s Sticky Fetus/
Gestating in Discontent’s womb/
Demanding its right to exist/

Resistance has no sacred text/
It’s not been articulated/
Once described it’s deconstructed/
Resistance is just existence/

Resistance lacks halls of power/
It has no expressive clothing/
It doesn’t wear expensive suits/
Resistance sits on public streets/

Resistance’s unrecognizable/
It fulfills no stereotype/
It is not white, Black nor Colored/
Resistance is unknowable/

Resistance lives everywhere/
Dressing in the local clothing/
Whispering “things could be better”/
Try to listen to her grumbling/

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A Bad Dream

Last might I dreamed I saw my old revolutionary friends. “Carlton,” the black one I remembered. I had to be re-introduced, through surreptitious whispers, to “McVie” and the others by my guide. I’ll call him Virgil.

McVie and another were both blind. Their eyes scarred over with skin as if from Some horrible procedure (it didn’t look like a burn). His eyelids were mostly sealed, and pulled out from the eyes, though when the light was right you could see within. Atrophied eyeballs, milky blue with cataracts set back from the lids. A jailhouse tattoo of a crown floated between his eyes, on the skin that seemed pulled tight by the missing or damaged eyes that peeked from the incompletely fused eyelids.

The next guy I called “Patrick” was leaning against a city lamp post. He was also blind, with a sparse goatee. His skin looked like it came off a 3000 year old mummy. That, his greasy down jacket and his white pony tail all told me he was a methodonian. His face was skin-grafted over his eyes, with little tears where I could see enormous eyes with cataracts, like he was an alien. He could sort of see and he moved his head to point the tears towards me to look.
Carlton, suddenly not his name, was black, thinnER and, well, “wrong” in some way I can’t named. He has pepper and salt hair, in a blown out Afro. His sparse goatee was white like revenge. It grew from his chin like moss or mold. Parts of it looked like it grew from his soul, stout and meaningful. Other parts ( the mustache on the right) looked like algae from a ships rope, except white.
I woke up in horror when it occurred to me this is what became of the true believers. They had all committed themselves to street-corner revolutionary philosophy. Had I not stopped smoking pot and hanging out on Sixth Ave selling Buttons, this would have been my lot. I was too lazy and selfish to be a Marxist of their ilk.
I was looking for Jason, who was a leader or catalyst for us. We’d all meet at his stand where he sold tiny Stalin and Marley pins to the people walking around the village in the early 80s. Virgil said he would not be there. I met the scarred survivors who made me look young. Besides “Carlton” I didn’t remember any of them.
They were like R. Crumb comics left in a basement or on a roof for two decades. I guess, like an inversion of Dorian Gray’s portrait, the images grew older faster than the immature souls the people had. The physical wreckage was visited on a bunch of old guys who wanted to have the peter pan syndrome. Never growing old emotionally made them rot physically.

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